The Diary of a Nobody
by Hannah-1888
Summary: A year in the life of a nobody called Severus Snape — all in his very own words. SS/HG
1. January

**AN: Find myself back sooner than I anticipated! Actually, this is a story I started a long time ago, when I had it in mind to write a humour fic. Instead of finishing this, though, I wrote _An Inspector Calls_. Still, have rediscovered it and here it is now. It is inspired by Helen Fielding's _Bridget Jones's Diary _novels, as well as the excellent _The Diary of a Nobody_, by George and Weedon Grossmith, from which I have stolen the title. This fic teeters precariously on the edge of parody, I think, but I will leave it up to you to determine how OOC the characters may or may not be.**

**Rating is a T, but there is a bit of swearing.**

**All characters belong to J. K. Rowling.**

* * *

_Why should I not publish my diary? I have often seen reminiscences of people I have never even heard of, and I fail to see—because I do not happen to be a 'Somebody'—why my diary should not be interesting. My only regret is that I did not commence it when I was a youth._

_Charles Pooter, The Diary of a Nobody (1892)._

* * *

**The Diary of a Nobody**

**Monday 27th December**

Received this diary for Christmas off Minerva. Why on earth she thought I'd appreciate it, I simply do not know.

Still, idea of writing down one's thoughts does not seem entirely abhorrent to me. It might even prove useful to catalogue the events of one's day, I suppose.

Am considering, despite initial dismissal of diary, whether I should actually write in it. There can be no harm done, after all. No one else will be reading it; not unless they value their health, anyway.

It is settled; I shall start now.

**15:00**

Today I went to Diagon Alley and bought some parchment and a set of new quills. When I got home, I decided to read—

Forget it; I've bored myself already.

**Saturday 1st January**

Right, well, it's a new year, after all—maybe I should give this another go. Perhaps I should give it a trial period and see how I feel at the end of it? I suspect that at some point I will do _something_ worth writing about, and it might be an interesting process transcribing it down into words.

For now, however…

Tended to my plants today. Gillyweed appears to be growing very nicely, but am beginning to be a little concerned as to the colour of my knotgrass. Shall have to keep close eye on it for next few days.

Am very bored, otherwise. Might even be looking forward to going back to work next week.

**Sunday 2nd January**

Started brewing Wolfsbane today—just because I can.

Afterwards, I had a bath and then polished my flasks—

Actually, maybe I don't have to record every detail of every day. Otherwise, when reading back over my entries, am sure I will be struck by pointlessness of existence and will want to commit suicide. Resolve that next entry will be at least a fraction more riveting. Will help that from tomorrow I shall no longer be stuck in the house, but back to work.

**Wednesday 5th January**

**10:00 — My Office**.

Hate being back in work. Hate my stupid, pokey box of an office. Most of all, hate my stupid demeaning job. Others may not consider it demeaning, but for me, there is a rather painful irony in it.

I am responsible for assessing and vetting recruits into the secret life of an Unspeakable. I am the front line in determining who has what it takes to hold one of the more prestigious and admired occupations within the corridors of power. An important responsibility, one might argue.

The irony, however, lies in the fact that I actually do not know what it is I am training candidates for. I have as much idea about what an Unspeakable does as anyone would.

Apparently, this non-existent level of inside knowledge is all I can be trusted with. My previous form with dubious allegiances and motives cannot be ignored, I am told.

I hesitated to point out that a fat lot of fucking good the Unspeakables were when Voldemort was wreaking havoc. Fat lot of fucking good they were when not only a band of Death Eaters, but Potter and his posse as well, waltzed as happily as you like into the Department and had free reign amongst the prophecies!

Seriously, what are these ridiculous people actually for? The fact that they do not disclose their work suggests to me that they do not bloody do any. Fancy themselves as some sort of Muggle Secret Service, do they? They've taken it entirely too seriously. Idiots.

So, yes, I am given each inductee, whereupon I am supposed to assess them to a predetermined brief. Following a period of training, and once I have decreed them satisfactory, they are euphemistically sent 'upstairs.'

What happens up there, again, I simply do not know.

It suits the Mnistry to keep me both close by and at arms length. It suits me, unfortunately, because I am not sure anyone else will have me. Can't blame them, really. They're not called Unforgiveables for nothing.

I make do. That's about the size of it. Have certain amount of room for manoeuvre (not literally; office really is a box) as I certainly know how to throw my weight around and get away with it. Bottom line is, I'm good at what I do and they know it. Have made fine art of spotting a Dunderhead at twenty paces.

Do wonder lately, though, as time goes on, whether I might try moving on from this dead end. Maybe this year I should give such an idea serious thought.

Ugh. Have just accidentally flicked open a few pages forward and have been reminded of impending, dreaded, annual event. Hate January.

As an aside, am quite pleased with this entry.

**Sunday 9th January**

**Noon. My Bed. **

Have just managed to wake up following night of self-inflicted debauchery.

All in all, not a very successful night. Head feels like it may spontaneously combust, and that eighth shot of vodka clearly has not done its job, for I remember quite painfully the reason why I chose debauchery in the first place. Birthday. Forty-fifth birthday, to be precise. Am now not only former Death Eater, former spy, former Potions Master, former Defence Against the Dark Arts Master, and current left-on-the-scrap-heap-civil-servant, of little significance, but am _forty-five year old _former Death Eater, former spy, former Potions Master, former Defence Against the Dark Arts Master, and current left-on-the-scrap-heap-civil-servant, of little significance.

The one boon, if you squint hard eough, is the advantage of my birthday falling at the beginning of the year. Once the chemically induced haze has lifted, and eventually it will, I can forget the inevitable stumbling block of depressing birthday and concentrate on my goals for the year ahead.

Yes, even I have goals. Since I decided so last night, anyway.

I know I wrote them down at some point, while I was still capable of holding a quill in my hand, and I left them somewhere… Ah, here they are, under the covers, stuck to my leg…

Personal aims for the following year (in no particular order):

1. Drink less.

2. Embark on new career route by finding a job I: a) actually enjoy; b) am not over-qualified for; and c) where I am fully appreciated.

3. Find a woman.

Hmm… Find a woman? Not something I have ever set my mind to… barring that one notorious aberration, of course…

Well, the way I see it, everyone else seems to have a partner so why shouldn't I?

Surely, cannot be _entirely_ repulsive and repellent to the opposite sex? There must be someone, _somewhere_, who would have me? Must not consider oneself fatally un-loveable. Must think positively.

That can be number four: Will think positively.

I deserve a bit of happiness after all the shite I have waded through to get to this point.

Am Severus Tobias Snape, young-_ish _man of no small amount of repute. Have cheated death at the hands of Darkest wizard of them all, for fuck's sake! Have mastered some of the most difficult potions known to wizard-kind! Have Order of Merlin! Have lived life that would make your average idiot-in-the-street hair curl!

Own hair is decidedly and firmly straight, thank you very much.

Getting a woman for myself should, in theory, be a piece of piss with my credentials. I can—

**12:30**

Bugger.

Envelope has just shot out of Floo containing note from Minerva, reminding me of my promise to attend her anniversary party in aid of celebrating her eighty years' service to the moulding of young minds. Am not entirely sure how I came to agree to attend such a detestable thing, especially since my initial reply had been along the lines of telling her to go and boil her head.

Apparently, am now subject to being Imperio'd there if fail to comply with her wishes. That's fine by me. If she wishes to spend the rest of her life in Azkaban, then that is her prerogative. What a glorious end to a career that would be. I might even encourage it.

Now, as Hangover solution has kicked in and head is not pulsing when I stand, I have to go and water my pots.

**Monday 10th January**

**17:30**

Have considered the likelihood of there being free drink at the party. Likelihood very likely, indeed. Should be cutting down, especially after the free-for-all last night, but…

Would only have a couple, anyway.

Can begin life of tee-totality on the morrow, methinks.

I shall go tonight, then. Don't really want Minerva to rot in Azkaban, after all.

**Midnight. Home.**

What a piss-poor night!

Bottom line—should never have gone.

Arrived slightly late at Hogwarts and found Minerva pacing around the Entrance Hall.

'There you are!' she scolded fiercely upon observing my arrival. She strode forward and wrenched my cloak off me, tutting when she saw I hadn't made any special effort with my attire. What the hell had she expected _me_ to turn up in? Silks? Gold embroidery? Ruffles?

'Get up those stairs,' she ordered, giving me a shove.

'Will you desist?' I snarled angrily.

She ignored me. 'Everyone's here,' she explained as she propelled me towards the Great Hall. 'I wanted to—'

'Bugger off, Minerva; I'm not going in through the main doors.'

She shook her head wearily and we traversed around to the doors at the back of the hall. No one took much notice of our entrance, a fact for which I was grateful. I was more than prepared to seize the nearest drink and slope off to the nearest corner, but had only achieved the former part of that aim when Minerva started muttering, 'Now, who can we introduce you to?'

I know that I must have blanched. I might intend to find myself a fair lady, but I certainly do not want any third-party involved. No bloody way.

'Minerva—'

'Look, there's Hermione! You remember Hermione Granger, don't you, Severus?'

I looked at her stupidly. How in the name of arse could I ever forget about Hermione holier-than-thou Granger? Have been known to have terrible flashbacks about her on occasion.

'In the midst of a divorce,' continued Minerva briskly. 'Bit of a touchy subject, I think. She's one of the most well regarded barristers in the—'

'Frankly, I don't give a shit, Minerva.'

From the pinched look on Hermione Granger's face, she appeared to have been within earshot of our conversation. Minerva hurried forward, unperturbed. 'Hermione, you remember Professor Snape? Just Severus now, of course.'

"_Just Severus"; dig the bloody knife in a bit deeper, Minerva!_

Hermione Granger gave a little pained smile that did not reach her eyes. 'How could I forget?' she replied stiffly.

I looked into my glass, cursing Minerva and her absurdity.

'Well then, I must get back to my other guests,' Minerva announced with a pathetic attempt at being opaque, but in fact being more transparent than a first-year Hufflepuff.

Once Minerva had flurried off in a whirl of tartan, Hermione Granger stood there looking as uncomfortable as I felt. Hadn't had the inestimable fortune of ever clapping eyes on her since the aftermath of the war had fizzled out. I noticed she gave me a surveying once-over with her eyes, and I was left with the impression that she did not like what she saw.

How dare she look me up and down like that! Snobby cow.

'So,' she said to me with disinterest. 'What is it you do now, then? Something in the Auror office, isn't it?'

I sloshed my whisky straight down my throat in one. 'No, it isn't. I work in the Department of Mysteries.'

She nodded with understanding. She knew as well as I that only certain people could admit to working within that specialised area, the inference being your responsibilities are not worth any cloak-and-dagger cover story.

She sipped her wine preciously, in marked contrast to my own swift near inhalation of my drink. Her eyes flitted to anywhere else but me and I could tell she wanted to get away. Couldn't really blame her as there seemed nothing else to say. I stood there with a mind as blank as a piece of slate and so, with little other option available, simply walked off. Honestly, what have I to say to a woman such as her?

Unfortunately, it wasn't to be my last encounter with her. Sometime later in the evening, I overheard her admonishing Minerva over the position the elder woman had placed her in.

'Please, Minerva, I don't need men paraded under my nose like that. Especially not men who may lay claim to being an unpleasant former teacher and old enough to be my father!'

Cheeky bint.

As if I wanted former bushy-haired, know-it-all students paraded under _my_ nose! Especially those old enough to be my… _daughter_.

Oh, Christ.

In recounting this I have just realised once more that I am old.

I'm knocking on in years. I'm alone. I've got a crap job. No prospects. Nothing…

Where's the brandy bottle? I won't need to bother with a glass…

**Tuesday 11th January**

**13:00 — Lunchtime. Ministry Canteen.**

The best part of the working day by a country mile.

Still feeling a bit delicate from the brandy last night. However, have feeling hearty meal with restore my equilibrium.

Wish I had money for own house-elf. Have not the patience or inclination for proper cooking at home. Therefore, lunch is usually the only square meal of my day.

Wish I could—

Aargh!

**13:45**

Was Potter.

Downside of lunchtime is increased risk of bumping into former students, enemies, 'friends', colleagues, anyone really. Strikes me, though, that have never seen Hermione Granger eating in here.

Silly me; what am I thinking? As if high-flying barrister would lunch in the staff canteen! They probably have a five-star restaurant located beneath the Wizengamot.

Potter often sits with me while we stuff ourselves with food. Think maybe Ginevra has not inherited Molly's culinary skill. Either that, or Potter really is the greediest swine known to man.

'Orrite, Snape?' he always says before proceeding with mastication.

It's not often I say anything in reply, but I did today. I said: 'Saw your friend at a party last night.'

'What are _you_ doing at a party?'

Hmm. Did not like his disbelieving tone. Potter likes to think I spend my evenings staring at a photo of his mother. No gratification to be had there—have tried it.

'Saw Granger at Hogwarts. Merlin, what happened?'

'Eh?'

'She stood there all night like she had a stick up her arse; as if her very presence was a condescension.'

Potter's expression clouded briefly. 'She's having a hard time of it lately, what with the divorce…'

He didn't seem entirely convinced to me, confirming my suspicion that Hermione Granger had become a self-important old cow.

'Weasley get fed up of seeing her scowl, did he?'

'I'd rather not talk about it, Snape. The whole debacle has put me in a right bloody difficult situation, I can tell you.'

I snorted dryly. 'Loyalty, eh? It's a curse.'

'She's a good girl, is Hermione. I think you're being a bit unfair toward her.'

I rolled my eyes at his predictability, thinking, _piss off back to the Aurory, Potter. _

He left eventually, and now I must get back to my dingy dump of an office, too. At least I feel less of a car crash now than I did this morning. Might even get some work done this afternoon.

Not that it'll make much difference to anything.

**Monday 17th January**

**10:00 — Office.**

Have been given first new meat… _trainee..._ of the new year to assess.

Do not use Ministry approved guidance, of course. Have developed own criteria against which to judge worthiness. Arrogant of me, maybe, to act like I know better than the bureaucrats, but thing is, I probably do.

**Noon**

Was presented with boy of twenty-five, who stood before me looking suitably terrified. Can't blame him. Point is, they have even less information than I do. It's all so very shadowy and enigmatic, I'm not sure I want to go into it.

Anyway, Mr. Kyffin Armstrong is his name. Has come from… Shall just check his file…

Oh, bloody Merlin. Immediate Dunderhead alert.

He's come from the Department for Magical Games and Sports.

Unfortunately, have to actually _prove_ dunderheadedness to my superior, Mr. Archibald Wilson. He's one of the Ministry's first-class dimwits, by-the-by.

Suspect he may be a bit afraid of me, so encounters with him are always a pleasure.

**Wednesday 19th January**

**14:00 — Office.**

Am convinced Mr. Armstrong is a non-starter. Have just seen him write 'scissors' without a 'c'. My assessment has not even begun yet.

**16:00**

Now firmly convinced.

Just presented Armstrong with a basic logic puzzle I stole from a Muggle puzzle book, and he completely fell apart in front of my eyes. When he'd nearly succeeded in ripping all his hair out, I simply told him to leave.

Where the fuck do they find these numbskulls?

_Where_?

**Thursday 20th January**

Think I'm enjoying this writing lark. Have just re-read over some of my entries and found myself appreciating my writing style. Seem to have really got the hang of it. Have made myself laugh on several occasions, too.

Have always thought vanity rather vulgar, but no one need know how secretly vulgar I can be, eh?

**Saturday 22nd January**

Have not drunk alcohol for several days running. Deserve a few drinks to celebrate such a feat! What else are weekends for? Besides, don't actually want to be tee-total, now that I think about it. A moderate drinker is fine.

Everything in moderation—one of life's best maxims to adhere to.

Besides, need to think about where I'm to meet potential lady-friend. The pub is the only option open to me, I feel. It's the only place I ever go to with any regularity apart from the Ministry.

Am determined to pursue notion of relationship. Have paid many dues in lifetime. Not too much to ask for a bit of companionship, is it? If Lucius pissing Malfoy can sustain a happy marriage, then by Merlin, so can I. Because, even _my_ conscience is cleaner than his.

Bastard. Bloody smug blond bastard.

**19:00**

Realised have not thought about what I would like in a woman.

Hmm… Am not so desperate that have no standards… Should I make list?

Here we are:

1. Be within an acceptable age-range. Don't want to be accused of anything untoward.

2. No red hair.

3. No green eyes.

4. Have functioning brain.

5. Witch/Muggle?

Muggle might be to my advantage, as she would not have any preconceived notions about me. On the other hand… Maybe will leave that one up to fate…

6. Be unattached. Have no desire to be involved in showdowns involving jealous husbands or boyfriends.

Shall continue to think and edit list when and if I see fit.

Now, must go and throw some Cleaning charms about the place—almost asphyxiated from dust-cloud this morning when I took down a book off the bookshelf.

**20:00 — Pub.**

Have arrived at pub to realise have no idea how to attract interest of _anyone_, let alone a woman.

**21:00 — Home**.

Bottle of Ogden's is plenty company enough, for now.

**Tuesday 25th January**

**17:00**

Has been rather a pleasant day.

Day started with me storming along the Ministry corridors until arrival at Mr. Archibald Wilson's office. Upon arrival, I did not knock, I simply flung open the door and marched inside.

'Snape!' exclaimed the little man, his mutton chops all a-quiver. 'What do—'

Throwing down a scroll of parchments, I declared: 'How many Dunderheads have you brought before me now, Wilson?'

Wilson looked speculatively at the scroll. 'I—'

'Are you just picking any old bugger off the street? I assure you, I won't put up with it any longer.'

'I take it our latest recruit has fallen short?' Wilson proceeded to pick up the scroll and unroll it with a frown. 'We had it on good authority that he was a model student at Hogwarts.'

I scoffed loudly. _'Anyone_ may be a model student at _Hogwarts_. I bet none of his teachers bloody remembered him when enquiries were made! If your lot paid better observation to targets, instead of relying on examination results, then I wouldn't have to waste time and resources on lazy, dim-witted, immature idiots, would I? And you, Wilson, wouldn't have your superiors from upstairs breathing down your neck!'

Wilson looked up sharply. 'How do you—'

'There's very little I don't know, Wilson; remember that.'

So saying, I turned on my heel and stalked out. I stormed all the way back to my domain and slammed my door shut with a satisfying shove. Then, I stood still for several moments to absorb the gratification of the entire incident.

Despite my performance, I had no doubt my next recruit would be just as inadequate as the last.

Suspect day shall not be so pleasant tomorrow, however.

Ugh.

**Wednesday 26th January**

**18:00 — Yorkshire. East Riding. **

Arrived in middle of squall. Could hear sea crashing against cliffs straight away. In this part of the country, that can never be anything other than an ominous. Walked up to the small house in front of me, and as soon I stepped over the threshold, there came a voice from on high.

'Sev'rus?' it called. 'That you?'

Raising my eyes to the ceiling, I grimaced. 'Yes,' I replied grimly. 'It's me.'

He rarely ventured downstairs—couldn't walk very well. I climbed up the stairs with heavy footsteps and alighted on the landing above. The bedroom was dim, night having long since fallen to leave light only from a bedside lamp. He was sat up in bed, obviously in one of his better, more lucid moods where he remembered easily who I was.

'Father,' I greeted plainly.

'Chuck us t' remote, eh, Sev'rus?'

'There's a good lad,' he rasped as I passed it to him from where it had fallen onto the floor.

The telly flared to life and he looked at me no more. It is many a year since I have ceased to be offended by anything he does. If anything, I find it easier not having to look at him, myself; even though I have been seeing him on a fairly regular basis for nigh on three years. Hitherto, had not seen him for nigh on twenty.

Was not the result of any particular incident, our estrangement. I'd just never liked my parents—either of them. They'd barely liked me. That is how it seemed, anyway. Still, blood is thicker than water, and all that claptrap. What else was I supposed to do when presented with the wreck he had become?

The District Nurse sees to him most of the time. Most evenings I spend there involve aimless watching of the telly. There are times when he will talk—nonsense usually—but mostly he gets lost in whatever ridiculous programme he is watching. I don't say anything; will either read or occupy myself in some other fashion. Sometimes, I don't think he's aware I am there.

Which is fine.

Other times, he doesn't even know who I am. Not his fault, of course; just the way it is.

Which is also fine. I suppose part of me is sorry to admit it so, but I don't dwell on what some would deem a rather sad fact that I do not feel pain at my father's occasional ignorance of me. Really, it says everything there is to say about our relationship—the honest truth of it. There's no point pretending it is any other way.

And it's all just… fine.

Always has, always will be.

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AN: Thanks for reading; let me know, if you are so inclined, whether you did or did not like it.


	2. February

**The Diary of a Nobody**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Tuesday 1st February**

**18:00 — Home.**

Considered going to pub again, in hope of meeting potential woman. The thought, however, of standing there without the tiniest idea of what to do or say does not appeal in the slightest. Think I'd actually prefer spending the evening with my father, and that's saying something.

Realise have not really given the whole thing a proper chance, but already feel hassle may not be worth it.

I suppose I could focus my attention on women I'm already acquainted with. At least then I do not have to worry about thinking up an ice-breaker. Much less chance for awkward situations that way.

**18:05**

Occurs to me that I know very few women.

**18:06**

And very few men, even, for that matter.

Mysterious, solitary, self-denying existence has evidently had greater effect on me than previously thought. Must think positively. Maybe luck will change if patient. I waited seventeen years for revenge on Voldemort—I think I know how to be patient.

Expect there will be some God-awful social event Minerva shall invite me to in the near future. Shall have to be martyr and force myself to attend.

**Thursday 3rd February**

**12:30 — Department of Mysteries. **

Wilson called me into his office this morning to discuss our failure, though I feel he may think it _my_ failure, in not procuring a successful candidate for the department in nearly three months.

'You already know my feelings on the matter, Wilson. Unless you would like a rehash?'

Wilson shook his head vehemently. 'Look, Snape, I realise we don't always get it right when we pick potential recruits, and that is fine, for the most part, because it is your job to sort the wheat from the chaff. But we have not had such a bad run as this for a long time.'

'Are you suggesting I'm not up to it?'

Wilson paled. 'Oh, dear Merlin, no, no. I've ensured there is will be far more, ah, rigour, involved in selecting the next candidate. There is something else, though, that I wished to ask you about… Mr. Armstrong, just before he was _Obliviated_, of course, mentioned something about a, ah, _logic puzzle_? He seemed to feel unfairly treated over the matter—'

I rolled my eyes. 'It's the first test I give them.'

'Is it now?' he asked sceptically.

Inwardly I smirked. '_Accio_ logic puzzle.' Momentarily, a piece of parchment came fluttering into the room and I smoothed it onto the desk. 'Indeed, Wilson; I use this as a gauge for brainpower. Admittedly, it is not conclusive, of course, and is even less so amongst certain factions of society. It's a Muggle creation, you see.'

Wilson only looked unconvinced.

'It says a lot about the way a person's mind works if they are able to solve it. Most will get there eventually, given time, but I'm not interested in waiting days for an answer. I want to see them demonstrate an inherent method and logic to their thinking. Is it not my fault if Armstrong was unequal to the task. And, may I add, the logic puzzle was not his sole failing.'

Wilson nodded vaguely. 'I just don't want you to place too much emphasis—'

'Now, Wilson, I have no doubt a man of your capabilities would have _no_ trouble in unravelling it.'

'Oh, do you think so?'

I edged the parchment towards him slightly. 'Undoubtedly.'

He shrugged his shoulders in a show of nonchalance, but was obviously feeling flattered. He looked almost coy. 'Well, I'm not sure—'

'Oh, please,' I said smoothly, 'I have no use for modesty, you know.'

He nodded in agreement. 'Certainly, I should like to give it a go.' He leant forward eagerly, grasping his quill.

It's for moments like the one that followed that I am glad I took up my quill to record my life on the page. I know I shall enjoy reliving this entry over and over.

I watched Wilson's eyes dart back and forth over the page as he read the passage avidly. His face turned progressively more ashen, however, the further down the page he read. And when he took in the grid with the answers, he swallowed and shifted in his chair.

'I see, I see…' he muttered to himself.

He put the tip of his quill to his mouth, _affecting_, I rather thought, a look of deep concentration. For about five minutes, he sat there staring at the page without making any move to attempt an answer. There may even have been sweat forming on his brow, but I concede that it may have been a trick of the light.

I couldn't help it. After a few more minutes, I made a show of taking out my pocket watch and checking the time, during which Wilson looked up, unable to mask the panic in his eyes.

'Sorry, Snape, just remembered I have a, ah, meeting to attend shortly… If you'll excuse me… ?'

I got to my feet briskly. 'No problem; I'll leave it with you for later. I can also drop by some that I've written myself, if you like?'

'You've written… ?' the rest of his sentence evaporated into thin air and he smiled awkwardly. 'Wonderful; just wonderful.'

I had to stop myself from smirking all day.

**Saturday 5th February**

Ah. It is as I expected. Have just received note from Minerva detailing a little get-together taking place at the Leaky Cauldron next Saturday night. Maybe I should take up an occupation as a Seer?

Initial instinct is, naturally, to decline. However, if I am going to take my search for a partner seriously then I must make an effort. No pain, no gain.

**Friday 11th February**

**17:30**

Have arrived home from work. Usually, I would set about sorting myself something to eat at this time, but am not feeling very hungry tonight. Have been thinking a lot about tomorrow; seriously debating whether to bother going to the Leaky, after all.

No. I _must_ convince myself to go, no matter how much I may be dreading it.

Will be many people there, I expect… And I have a right to be there as much as anyone.

Think I need to be a little more prepared this time than I have been on previous occasions. Clearly, on past form, I cannot just turn up and 'wing it', otherwise I will be home within the hour again.

Perhaps I should consider myself critically and make some changes, in order to make myself more amenable to the female kind?

Um… Yes, I can do that.

**19:00**

Aargh!

**19:10**

Do not like standing in front of mirror and assessing my reflection.

Have forced myself to stand and stare for a full ten minutes, but still cannot bring myself to make resolve as to what I see. What kind of man cannot look his own reflection in the eye, hmm?

Shall begin with a bit at a time, I think; rather than taking in the _whole _sorry picture that I am in one go_._ Start with hair and work way down, maybe. Sounds reasonable enough.

Right… Hair…

…

No grey hairs as of yet—something to put on what will be paltry list of triumphs, I expect. Should I reconsider length of hair? Have no idea which length of hair serves best—could cut hair and end up looking even more numpty-like than already do.

Will leave hair.

Now, for the face… Oh, fuckity fuck.

Forget it, Snape; just give up.

Don't know why I am even bothering to go. It's not as if I feel any sort of affiliation with any of the people who will be there. Strongest feeling I have is probably contempt—hardly basis for socialising, is it?

Still, hiding in flat is hardly a thrilling prospect, either.

**19:30**

Has just occurred to me, on reading back through this entry, that I should possibly rip it out. Should, Merlin forbid, someone ever get their hands on this diary, perhaps on the occasion of my death, for instance, this is _not_ how I want to be remembered!

**Saturday 12th February**

**20:00**

Have spent nearly an hour deciding whether to charm cravat to different colour in aid of Making Effort.

Navy blue is all I am capable of it seems. Will have to do. Am off to Leaky Cauldron now.

**1:00**

Wash verrry shitty nighth… !

**Sunday 13th February**

**11:00**

Hell's fucking bells! Have woken up with splitting headache and my mouth feels like the bottom of a bird cage.

Was forced to drink body weight in alcohol last night to block out all the people I can't stand. Leaky Cauldron was bustling merrily by the time I finally turned up. I sloped to the bar without fanfare, but once furnished with very much needed libation, turned around to find myself faced with Hermione Granger, or Weasley, whatever it is she's calling herself these days.

'Hello,' she said, in that unusually can't-be-bothered voice I'd never previously associated with her before.

I merely nodded in acknowledgement. I hadn't really given any thought to her being here. She seemed the type to turn her nose up at such a soiree. Let's face it, the Leaky Cauldron is hardly the height of sophistication, and I sensed from the way her hair was twisted up, from the way she held herself, and from her perpetually controlled expression that she considered herself the very model of refinery.

Wouldn't hurt her to crack a smile, though, would it? Miserable cow.

She studied me for a moment, and I told myself not to feel self-conscious about my navy-blue cravat.

'Sir… Severus, I—'

'Oh, no knighthood as of yet, Mrs Weasley,' I interjected dryly. 'Her Majesty has not yet been so kind.'

Her expression faltered ever so slightly, though whether to indicate humour or irritation I was not to discover. At that moment, Ronald Weasley came swaying towards us like some drunken tree, arms flailing dramatically.

'Hermione… !' he wailed thickly, his speech punctuated by sharp hiccups. 'Hermione, _pleash_… talk to me…'

Hermione Granger's cheeks burned as I neatly side-stepped the gangling arsehole stumbling between us. With a sneer of disgust, I gratefully removed myself as far away as possible.

Merlin. Right there was a first-class example as to why I should forget my search for a potential partner and make do with a life of solitude.

I sat down next to Minerva and surveyed from the safe distance Granger's attempt to remove the Weasley idiot from her person. 'Just what is the reason for the Weasleys' impending divorce?' I asked her ponderously.

She followed my line of vision and sucked in a disapproving breath through her teeth. 'General details aren't entirely known,' she answered. 'But it's more or less certain that young Ronald was caught with a bit-on-the-side.'

Wasn't sure I entirely blamed him for it, from what I'd seen of Granger. Though, on reflection, I'd pick her side before I picked his. I dislike Weasley the most now, out of the three of them, I think. It's always liable to change, however.

'Found yourself a woman yet, Severus?'

And so began the downward spiral of the night.

I scowled at she who had put the question to me. It was Poppy. Turns out that, in a drunken haze at Minerva's party, I accidentally told Poppy of my desire to find a woman. Am not proud of myself for such moments of indiscretion. Time was, I'd never have allowed myself to become drunk in the company of others.

'Yes, it's surely about time you found someone, Severus,' piped up Minerva. 'You're not getting any younger, after all.'

'Am not quite at death's door,' I countered darkly. _Unlike some_…

'I've been thinking; we've got a lovely new Ancient Runes mistress at Hogwarts. She'd do nicely for you, don't you think Poppy? Shall we arrange a meeting?'

I flinched violently. '_No_! By Merlin, do not bloody arrange anything!' I spat.

'Well, that's not the attitude! You'll never find anyone like that!'

'Leave me alone,' I demanded, taking my leave of them in search for more alcohol. God, the mere thought of some sort of (I can barely bring myself to write the words)… _blind_ _date_… makes my stomach heave.

Whilst at the bar, and enjoying a refreshing pint this time, I did force myself to consider Minerva's point. Not her point about the Ancient Runes mistress, but about my attitude. Possibly, I will have to have a better attitude with regard to meeting someone. But I just do not know how I can change it for the better.

_Think_ _positively_.

I glanced surreptitiously around the pub, trying to see if there was any witch present who might take my fancy. Couldn't really see anyone interesting. Looked down the length of the bar to see unfamiliar witch with long dark hair standing at other end. Significantly, she was alone.

Found myself watching her, more out of scientific interest than anything else, I fear. But, in actual fact, she was certainly not unpleasing to the eye. I felt she appeared to be not too far away from me in age, too.

I did not think my observation of her was very obtrusive, but, eventually, she began to fidget.

What might happen upon making eye contact, I wondered. Any number of things…

I felt a brief flicker of anticipation. She might—

Actually, it transpired that nothing happened; apart from her frowning and haughtily turning her back to me, that is.

I stared into my drink. So far so bloody good.

Spent rest of the night drinking pint after pint and lamenting my apparently meaningless existence.

**Monday 14th February**

**15:00 — Office.**

Something outrageous has happened today.

Came into my office this morning to find something on my desk that certainly shouldn't have been there.

It was a heart. A chocolate heart, mark you; not a real one. It was rather small and wrapped in red foil.

Naturally, I could not work it out. What in the name of arse was it doing on my desk? And naturally, I thought it must be poisoned.

So, upon ascertaining there were no curses on the chocolate, I did what any self-respecting former Death Eater and former Spy would do; I flicked it onto the floor with the nib of my quill and stamped my foot on it. After I'd Banished the mess off the floor and cleaned the caramel off the underside of my shoe, I endeavoured to put the incident from my mind.

If it was not meant as a vengeful attempt to kill me, then no doubt it was a childish joke. Maybe Wilson has a rather under-developed sense of humour I'm only now becoming privy to.

It was only when my stomach started rumbling, rather prematurely before lunch, that I wished I'd eaten it.

**Wednesday 16th February**

**10:00 — Office.**

This week is beginning to be filled with odd occurrences. Do not like it.

When I got out of the lift this morning, I noticed the department receptionist smiled at me. No one ever smiles at me, especially not receptionists, because I usually pay them absolutely no attention whatsoever. It's not any fault of theirs, or that I think them beneath me; it's just a product of my irrepressibly brusque nature.

Hmm… Think she may be a new-ish member of the admin team, so… she'll learn not to smile, in time.

**11:00**

Wilson has presented me with our latest recruit this morning, and I don't care what anyone says, I shall be using my logic test.

That is what she is working on now. Yes, it's a she.

Am consummate professional, of course, and would never consider the merits of a trainee under my tutelage. Mind you, on the face of it, she does have some, ah, merits, does Miss Helena Moran. Remarkably long and shiny brown hair, for one. A charming countenance, for another. Legs up to her—

Shall not go any further.

But why are they always so bloody young? Twenty-two, her file says. Is there no one around over the age of forty these days?

Regardless, I shall not be seeking the attention of Miss Moran, for once I've finished with her training, she'll like as much want to kill me. So, not point bothering, really.

**12:00**

Miss Moran has finished my puzzle within half an hour. Not a record time, by any stretch, but she did complete it correctly.

Hmm… Not sure I liked the smug expression on her face as she explained her process of deduction. I didn't even ask for a bloody explanation.

Will redouble efforts for round two.

**Friday 18th February**

**18:00 — Home.**

There has been a rather shocking development on the unknown Valentine's day chocolate front!

When finishing my shift tonight, instead of storming straight for the lifts, as is my wont, I took my leave at a slower pace and happened to glance at the lady behind the reception desk.

And lo, she was looking _right at me_. The same one who smiled at me two days prior.

Her look was not your average scowl or look of terror, which I am no stranger to, but it was a rather measuring look that turned into a small, secret smile when she caught my eye. She turned back to her parchments with, and I don't think I imagined it, a flick of her hair. All I did was dumbly throw myself into a lift.

Is she responsible for putting the chocolate on my desk? She would have access to my office, so it is highly plausible.

I shall have to wait until Monday to gather further information on this score. Perhaps, upon arrival on Monday, I shall try a greeting myself and see how she responds.

Am unsure as to what precisely I should say. Wilson always greets his staff brightly and effusively every morning. That certainly is not me.

'Hello' will have to suffice.

**Monday 21st February**

**13:00 — Canteen.**

Interesting morning.

Despite my previous resolve, I paid the receptionist not one glance when I arrived this morning. Could only imagine that to do otherwise would be to put myself in a situation where I might feel considerably ridiculous.

But, mid-morning, there came a knock on the door and it was her. She came in—a little blonde thing she is, reminding me, for some reason, of a Hufflepuff. I wondered if I might have taught her at some point, but she is not immediately familiar to me. Anyway, she came in and handed me a folder.

'Mr. Wilson requested I pass this onto you, Mr. Snape.'

She smiled quite charmingly, I must say.

All I said was: 'Very well.'

She made to leave, but then paused. 'My name is Lucinda, by the way, if you need anything.'

I'm not sure why, but when I said, 'Very well… _Lucinda_,' she blushed and scuttled out.

It should be noted that I shall be keeping an eye on her. That she might be interested in me is right at the bottom of my list. More than likely, she has heard of my reputation as a Potioneer and needs some exotic potion she cannot afford to buy, or maybe she is hoping I can put in a good word for her with Wilson…

Or maybe… I wonder if she wants to kill me? When you've lived the life I have, that option, unfortunately, has to be considered.

And I, most emphatically, was not born yesterday.

Wish I'd saved some of that chocolate heart for rigorous alkaloid testing now. Oh well, it can't be helped.

In future, whenever she comes near, shall simply have to ensure one hand stays on my wand at all times.

* * *

AN: Thanks very much to those who left a review; I appreciate them very much. Hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	3. March

**The Diary of Nobody**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Thursday 3rd March**

**12:30p.m. Office.**

Lucinda is still smiling at me whenever I pass her at reception—very much in spite of the fact that I barely acknowledge her.

I can't help it—I just cannot bring myself to smile back. And it's not solely because I am concerned she might leap up and _Crucio_ me when I least expect it… The bottom line, I think, is that I just don't know how to be charming.

Because, really, I am prepared to think it unlikely that she has some terrible vengeance in mind. I like to imagine that over the years I have gained some wisdom in how to read people and, to my mind, she does not appear to be a calculating psychopath. I have no concrete evidence to that effect, anyway.

I wonder what her surname is? If I knew it, I might be able to work out whether she has cause to attack me.

There's no point dwelling on it. Notwithstanding my stint as Death Eater, have alienated whole generations through my exclusive teaching style.

A feat I am, actually, rather proud of.

**Monday 7th March**

**18:00p.m. Home.**

Terrible thing has happened.

Arrived home to find my orchids hanging limply over the flowerbeds. Recall that I have not tended them for several days running!

It shocks me to realise how distracted my mind has been lately, and all because of potential assassin lurking in my office.

Shall have to sort this out before long; cannot continue in this way. Next week, I will get to the bottom of this situation.

**Thursday 10th March**

**21:00p.m. Withernsea, Yorkshire. **

Have had rather surreal evening, indeed.

Earlier this afternoon, I Apparated north to visit my father. Snape the elder was not in the best of spirits, however. He had no idea who I was when I entered his bedroom. Before I could explain my being his son, he got it into his head that I was his brother, Philip. His long dead brother Philip, in fact.

He started shouting at me, barely incomprehensibly, about some incident I had no clue about. The gist appeared to be that I had done him some wrong. No change there, then.

It pleases me to note that I'm not quite without a moral compass, for I always refrain from throwing a Silencing charm at him during such times.

With some idea that it was futile, I tried to calm him down. He would have none of it, of course.

In the end, seeing I was fighting a losing battle, I stood up and left. I did not want to leave altogether—not while he was in such a highly strung state—so I picked up my father's tweed flat cap, to guard my head against the cold drizzle, and took myself outside instead.

I took as many steps towards the cliff edge as I dared, which wasn't far considering how near to the house it actually is. The noise of the sea on the beach below was almost deafening, and the vista before me was such a flat, endlessly grey and depressing picture that I wondered if I would even care if the ground crumbled away beneath my feet.

I lit one of my father's cigarettes that I'd snatched up on leaving his bedroom. Am not a smoker in the traditional sense. Only reason I ever tried it was out of scientific curiosity.

In the summer before my seventh year, I got it into my head to try an experiment. I started smoking a packet of cigarettes a day until I felt I was finally addicted—I forget precisely how long it took me to feel that first craving. Once that stage was achieved, the experiment could really begin— to find a way of combating the effects of addiction. What did I do? I developed a potion that eased the need for nicotine after only a short course of doses.

Unfortunately, the development of the potion took longer than I'd originally anticipated, and so I spent several months of my seventh year dying to get out of Transfiguration so that I might have a sneaky puff.

Lost all interest in smoking after I cured its effects, of course. Still, in times like these, I find them useful for focusing the mind.

Briefly toyed with repeating the experiment, only with alcohol, but decided that might be taking things rather too far.

It's funny; my father's mind might be progressively deteriorating, but I bet he will still notice one missing bloody cigarette. I once offered to give him some of my potion, so that he might curtail the damage it has done to his chest.

He said: 'Don't be silly! S'only pleasure I have left!'

Suppose I can't argue with that.

It was while I was puffing away, and staring out along the coastline, that a solitary figure approached along the path at the front of the house. I paid them no heed, but they evidently did me, for the next thing I knew, they'd called out to me.

'Oh, hello, there. What are you doing up here?'

Christ. It was Granger. I could make out her deadpan expression even in the half light. How is it you do not see someone for ages and then you see them everywhere?

'Mrs Weasley—'

'Hermione, is fine,' she interrupted.

'Hermione,' I said equably, stubbing out the cigarette under my foot. I was very much aware of the hat on my head, but felt that to pull it off would signify to her my discomfort. So I sacrificed my dignity and left it be. 'What a pleasure.'

I was pleased to hear that my tone of voice was dry enough to be positively dehydrated. Good. She can suffer my derision like I have to suffer hers.

'My father lives here.' I nodded my head at the house.

She looked momentarily surprised, adjusting her umbrella so that she might look at the small dwelling. 'Oh, really?'

'Yes, really.' Why would I lie?

She smiled slightly. 'I don't live around here, but I like to walk this stretch of coast, especially after a long day.'

I could only wonder what a long day for over-achieving paragons of justice and equality might constitute.

I saw that she still looked at my father's house.

'Is this where you grew up?' she asked.

I made no comment at her sudden interest in me. 'No, indeed. I grew up the other side of the Pennines. But my father is a Yorkshireman, born and bred. He sought his fortune elsewhere, and when that proved a fallacy, he returned to his beloved East Riding...'

Specifically, without his wife and son.

Anyone may excuse the disdain with which I spoke, but I have sneaking suspicion that she did not.

'Isn't it a bit dangerous, him living here?' Her eyes turned to the ever retreating cliff-edge.

I shrugged carelessly. 'I think that is what he is hoping for—that the sea will eventually swallow him up.'

Her eyes widened in shock.

'He is unwell,' I explained. 'Shall never recover.'

'How awful,' she said, looking pensive. 'I'm sorry.'

I shrugged again. 'It's life.'

Clearly, hindsight will tell me she was becoming offended by my cavalier attitude, but I did not comprehend it fully at the time, as evinced by the next exchange.

'Do you live here with him?'

'God, no,' I scoffed loudly. 'I bloody hate this empty place. The sea is welcome to it, as far as I'm concerned.'

She stared at me. 'I see,' she replied tightly. 'Well, I… If you'll excuse me, I must be off. Good evening… Severus.'

With that, she disappeared back along the road. I watched her go, feeling a little confused. Part of me wanted to shout that she should be careful where she stepped along such treacherous land, while another, I fear, rather insecure part of me wanted to run up and shove her off the cliff myself.

I managed to reign in both impulses by storming back inside.

I did not like the way she had looked at me. She probably thinks I have not a compassionate bone in my body for letting my invalid father live alone in some empty house that clings precariously to some crumbling, wind-swept cliff-top.

What the fuck does she know, though? She knows nothing of my relationship with my father. Her self-righteous ideals are not welcome here.

Fact remains, though, that I am left with the distinct impression that I've been well and truly, comprehensively and unequivocally, _judged_ by Hermione Granger.

Fuck her, I say.

**Monday 14th March**

**11:30a.m. Office.**

Can't bring myself to confront Lucinda (my head likes being buried in the sand), even though things are picking up pace, it seems. She brought me a mug of tea this morning, clearly having overheard me telling Miss Moran to leave me alone unless she had a tea and a plate of biscuits to hand (I overindulged last night and was feeling a little delicate this morning).

I was so thrown that, I'm sorry to say, on taking a sip, I commented that a spoonful of sugar would suffice just as well as a spade-ful, next time.

Next time, I was told, I could get my own tea.

Fair enough, I suppose.

It was only after she left that I remembered I was supposed to screen anything I received from her. The tea looked all right, and I could not smell anything untoward, but you know, so many poisons are undetectable it's just not worth it. So, to be on the safe side, I tipped the contents of the mug into a nearby plant pot.

She can look out if my fern shrivels up and dies.

**Wednesday 16th March**

**11:00a.m. Ministry.**

The effrontery!

Miss Moran has just glibly asked if I am aware that the receptionist fancies me!

I glared at her and told her that if she does not return to her Arithmancy equations within three seconds, she'd be finding herself applying for a job cleaning all the toilets in the Ministry.

Needless to say, she complied immediately.

Felt good to snap at someone—it's the one thing I miss about teaching, really. Particularly nice to snap at her, as well, because I think Miss Moran believes a bit too much of herself. She should know that I do not temper myself for anyone—no matter how long their legs are.

What cannot be ignored, however, is the valid point she raises. Lucinda has been in my office on some little errand no less than five times this morning. Feel like I might have to get a revolving door fitted if it carries on.

Have horrible feeling today is the day I am going to have to confront her.

Should be interesting.

**12.30p.m.**

! ! ! !

**17:30p.m. Home.**

Am only now able to scribe events as they transpired this afternoon. Hitherto, have been too gob-smacked.

I finally corralled myself into speaking to Lucinda, with the aim of discreetly mentioning her somewhat suspect behaviour. When I reached her desk, I surreptitiously took out my wand and held it out of view. Just in case, you understand.

'Mr. Snape,' she greeted brightly upon perceiving me. 'What may I do for you?'

'Lucinda,' I said calmly, although inside my head, alarm bells were ringing so loudly my head started to throb. Had the terrible feeling I was about to make a fool of myself. 'I, ah… Recently, I have noticed that… that you… I mean to say, I wonder if you might like to exp—'

'I'd love to,' she burst out suddenly.

I could only look at her stupidly. I hadn't even finished my bloody sentence! 'I'm sorry?'

She flushed. 'I'd love to have a drink with you some time.'

Took all my willpower not to gape.

For someone generally unassuming in nature, she is remarkably presumptuous! Found, though, that I could not find my voice to put her straight on my actual purpose in seeking her out. Which, I need not add, was _not_ to ask her out!

Am now more convinced of a double-motive than ever.

'That was what you were about to ask, wasn't it?' she asked hastily, looking uncomfortable.

I should have shouted, 'No! It certainly was not!' But, despite myself, I was struck by her sincerity and found myself preparing to go along with her misunderstanding. I think I was flattered, and I realise that makes me sound inexcusably pathetic.

I tried to smile affirmatively, but, ah, well, I'd be lying to say I achieved it. I choked out a 'Certainly,' instead.

Immediately, I shouted at myself. I still don't know what I was doing agreeing to this.

'How about Friday night at the Leaky Cauldron?'

I was so dazed that she might have suggested we meet at Florean Fortescue's bloody ice-cream parlour and I would have nodded my consent like some _bloody useless huge_ _piece of crap_!

Merlin.

'Lovely,' she said.

I excused myself and wandered back to my office. Once I was inside, I collapsed into my chair and focused all my energies on not having a panic attack.

**Thursday 17th March**

**3:00a.m. Home. Bed.**

_Aargh_!

Have just woken up suddenly, and am sweating and hardly able to breathe. Was not the product of a nightmare. I wasn't reliving being attacked by a giant snake. I wasn't imagining Voldemort risen from the dead.

No.

Have just remembered I am to go to Leaky Cauldron tomorrow with Lucinda.

Lucinda; potential slayer of men with dubious pasts.

**Friday 18th March **

**17:15p.m. Home.**

Have managed to keep myself moderately focused today. Haven't done any work, of course, but no one will notice.

I should be pleased that I have made an important breakthrough with regard to goal of finding a woman, especially as I didn't really have to do much. But I think part of me is actually hoping she does want to kill me. Death threats I can deal with.

Anyway, I am trying not to think too much about it all.

Although, I do wish we were going somewhere else apart from the Leaky. On the other hand, it strikes me that I am hardly in a position to be picky about details.

This may be my last diary entry. Am not going to write anything more until the ordeal is over, and well, 'over' might constitute my incapacitation or death. I just don't know.

**23:00p.m. Home.**

Hmmm.

Evening did not go entirely as anticipated, which is a good thing, of course.

Leaky Cauldron wasn't as bad as I expected, either. We found a quiet enough section of the pub in which to sit. I got us some drinks in, and then I had no idea what to do. Didn't mention that to her, of course.

She, at least, was less hesitant and simply started talking. Small-talk about our respective days at work was gone through, and it actually didn't irritate me. She spoke a bit about herself—where she was from, her family; the usual stuff, I expect.

But then she stopped and just looked at me, and, with horror, I realised I was supposed to start talking about _myself_.

My mind went suddenly blank. I wasn't entirely sure how much she already knew about me, but it had to be a bit. Unless she'd lived under a rock for the past five years.

Evidently, she grasped some of my difficulty, for she said: 'I, ah, don't expect you to talk about your, ah, time during the war, or anything…'

I smiled grimly, or it may have been a grimace. Smile; grimace; same thing in my experience.

I don't recall what I actually said in reply, but I know my main foray into the conversation was to ask her when she had been at Hogwarts. I wanted to know whether she had ever been my student and if I had simply forgotten her. To be frank, I judged her to be a least ten years younger than me, which seemed to point to my being correct.

To my surprise, a shadow passed over her face. 'I knew that would come up straight away. I suppose I'm young enough to have been your student, hmm?'

I nodded, thinking, _here it comes_. She's going to start hexing me for all the wrongs I did her, and I've incited her ire by forgetting her in the first place.

However, what she did say shocked me more.

'I never went to Hogwarts,' she stated, straightening her posture defensively, 'because I am magically impaired. Not quite a Squib, but near enough as far as a Magical education goes.'

Well, it was a turn-up for the books, I must admit. Feel a bit ridiculous now for thinking she was planning Unforgiveables for me… Unless she's just lulling me into a false sense of security?

No. For once I will think the best of someone. Paranoid old git.

'Is it an issue for you?' she asked me boldly.

'By no means,' I replied.

It isn't an issue, but I think it might prove interesting.

She seems a nice enough girl, I don't mind saying. But although I found the evening pleasant, I fear that I am a little under-whelmed. I don't like to say it is any fault of hers, because she was enthusiastic, and I can't help but be taken by the fact that she seems to genuinely like me and want me to like her.

I think there must be something wrong with me, however. I found the whole situation a little hard to reconcile with. Sitting there, talking with someone I barely know… The whole night I felt like I was trying to be different. It's just not me to be able to go out and have drinks with acquaintances and be engaging and charming. The whole experience just felt false.

I realise that it is wise to give situations like these more than one chance. She expressed a desire to go out again, so maybe I should try again, and maybe I will be comfortable with her a second and third time, etc.

Even when she kissed my cheek, and though I might have been knocked down by a feather at the time, when I think on it now, I am appreciative, but not, I fear, ecstatic.

We shall see.

**Monday 20th March**

**14:00p.m. Canteen. Ministry.**

Damn Potter! Damn him!

Was eating my sausage and mash when he rolled up opposite me and, without preamble, said:

'A little bird tells me you went out with a woman on Friday night.'

Damn his smirking tone—speaking to me like I'm in my first flush of youth! I glared at him angrily. 'Who told you?'

'Never mind that.' He smirked infuriatingly once more. 'How did it go?'

'It's none of your God-damned business, do you understand?'

I tried to wrack my brains to see if I could recall any familiar face at the pub that night, but drew a useless blank.

'Keep you hair on; was only asking.' He raised his hands defensively. 'Didn't want any gory details, did I.'

I watched him grimace at his plate. I scowled. Last thing I bloody want is Potter sticking his oar in. All right for him, isn't it? Marries the first bloody girl he looks at. Like father, like fucking son. I stared at my mash, still feeling pissed off with the idiot opposite me. I thought I might do well to try Legilimency on him, to discover who was going around telling all and sundry my business.

'Think I might have something in my eye, Potter,' I said seriously, blinking rapidly. 'Couldn't have a look for me, could you?'

He said: 'Fuck off; I'm not falling for that again.'

* * *

AN: Thanks for reading and reviewing!


	4. April

**The Diary of a Nobody**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Monday 4th April**

**11:00 — Office.**

All has been quiet on the Western front, as they say. Indeed, have not had much cause to write in my diary for the last week or so.

Lucinda has had a week off work, so I've not seen her until today. She was at her desk when I arrived this morning and, of course, she greeted me warmly. I managed to say 'hello,' but that was about it. Should have probably asked her how her holiday had gone… Oh, well.

Half expected her to come in and arrange another outing, but she has not. Have thought about it very much lately and have decided that I would like to see what it might be like to get to know her better.

Maybe she will come in later on.

**17:30 — Home.**

Lucinda did not come in.

Humph.

**Tuesday 5th April**

**Noon — Ministry.**

Made myself stop at Lucinda's desk this morning and speak to her properly. I, of course, had a pretext for being there—needed my supply of parchment replenishing, didn't I.

I was clever, though. Instead of bringing up the parchment first, I asked her if she had enjoyed her holiday. That evidently pleased her, for she threw down her quill and smiled.

'Oh, it was wonderful, thank you, Severus.'

I admit, the slightly bronzed pallor to her skin suits her rather… well.

'I love Ibiza—have you ever been there?'

I'm sorry to say, this question was posed to me entirely seriously. So it fell upon me to answer it seriously, as well.

'Ah, no.' I replied. 'I've not yet had that pleasure.' And never will. Bloody hell.

Shortly after that, I took my parchment and retreated back to my office. Still, there was no sign of a further meeting between us. Perhaps she's changed her mind about me.

Find myself actually a little bit disappointed.

**Friday 8th April**

**14:30 — Office.**

Had briefing with Wilson this morning to discuss the progress of Miss Moran.

I had to tell him I thought she would probably last the distance, at which he looked relieved.

She has been doing rather well, I suppose. I have had no reason to take significant issue with her. Indeed, have had to tick her off against most of my criteria.

Not all, however. A good working knowledge of Muggles is desired in the ideal candidate, according to the brief I sometimes glance at when I'm bored. Miss Moran is a Pureblood, and while not entirely ignorant, is still prone to using ridiculous malapropisms, spoonerisms such as 'felly tone,' and generally speaking of Muggles with a rather disagreeable, but unconscious, pedantry. This is an area I shall have to address, and it's the worst one for me to deal with, because it usually means me having to leave the confines of my tiny office to undertake a little 'field-trip.'

That will be for another time.

Another issue I have with her is the state of her handwriting. Have to get a bloody magnifying glass out to read it.

I nearly took it up with her, but, infuriatingly, she got to me first.

'Excuse me,' she said one day, oh so frankly, 'but I'm afraid I cannot read your writing. Do you mind clarifying your instructions for me?'

I nearly hexed her for her impudence.

To make matters worse, when I snatched the parchment off her, I could barely read my writing either. It seems to have deteriorated over the years, and whereas it used to be small and spidery, but legible, it is now small and spidery, but _ill_egible.

When Miss Moran was not looking, I discreetly held my right hand out to see the steadiness of it, thinking that maybe my drinking has finally become so out of control as to make me develop a nervous tremor.

There was no such thing, of course.

Deep down, I know why my writing has become so reprehensible; it's because I can't be fucking arsed.

**16:30**

Why hasn't Lucinda asked me out again?

We could have done something tonight.

**Saturday 10****th**** April**

**13:00 — Yorkshire.**

Oh.

Is she waiting for _me_ to ask?

I bloody well asked last time! Well, in a manner of speaking I did, of course.

Hmm… Or maybe she just doesn't want to. That's fine.

**Monday 12th April**

**10:30 — Office.**

Ha!

She brought me tea and biscuits this morning!

'Did you have a good weekend, Severus?' she asked with a small smile.

'Tolerable, thank you, Lucinda.' She doesn't need to know I spent it scouring heath-land for rare plants. 'How was yours?'

'Boring,' she said, looking directly at me.

That moment; that was when I should have said, 'Oh, well why don't we do something next weekend?'

As if.

All I did was nod and stuff a custard cream in my mouth.

**14:15 — Canteen.**

Potter has just asked me if I am going to the reunion he and some of his ridiculous friends have organised—to be held at Hogwarts during the Easter break. I vaguely remember receiving some invitation of the sort, but, unfortunately, I used it to wipe my arse.

Ha ha. I didn't really; but I wish I had thought to say that to Potter just now. I can just see his face.

He said: 'We can't have a proper reunion without our arch-enemy present, can we?'

'You'll manage.'

'There'll be former students there from more than just my year. Don't you want to see how everyone has turned out?'

I looked at him stupidly. 'Potter,' I said. 'You've mistaken me for someone who gives a shit.'

'Well… the house-elves will be doing a spectacular spread...'

'What time is the kick-off?'

Yes; I am that easy.

**Wednesday 13th April**

**11:25 — Office**.

Have had a rather interesting idea.

An interesting, alarming, good, dubious, and suggestive idea.

Think it could be better to pretend I never had it, but…

I am considering asking Lucinda to come to the reunion with me. Have been thinking lately about her lack of magical ability and her ignorance of Hogwarts. I'm sure she would appreciate being able to visit the castle. And let's face it, I think she would be impressed and flattered to be asked to such an event.

Have no doubt just jinxed self by writing such a thing. Sod dictates she will now laugh in my face and say she wouldn't come to Hogwarts with me even if I paid her.

Bugger. Nice one, Snape; can't do anything right, can you?

Stupid git.

**Friday 14th April**

**12:30 — Office.**

Aargh!

**12:35**

Aargh!

Just asked Lucinda to the reunion. She said yes, and was very pleased and excited, but I still can't believe I did it. Am cringing at myself for no apparent reason. I did not make an arse of myself, but I think the thought that I potentially could have is enough to make me want to hex myself.

Told myself am brave enough to ask a woman out and made myself do it. I was outwardly calm and composed, mind. However flustered I might be inside, I can always rely on a deadpan expression and half-arsed drawl to be at my ready. Benefits of having such a sharp mind, I expect.

I did not walk past and say 'Wanna-go-to-a-Hogwarts-reunion-with-me?'

Indeed. I'm quite proud of myself, really.

I was so smooth and detached, I could have been asking about the weather…

Actually, _is_ that a good thing?

Hmm…

**Thursday 21st April**

**1:00 — Bed.**

Oh Merlin. Wish I had never asked her to Hogwarts. Feelings of pride at actions has evaporated to be replaced with terror and dread.

**Wednesday 27th April**

**3:00 — Bed.**

What if someone assumes that Lucinda is my long-lost daughter whom I've only just been reunited with?

Oh Merlin.

I think the embarrassment would actually kill me.

Thank God she looks nothing like me; might be able to get away with it.

**Saturday 30th April**

**17:30 — Home.**

Time remaining until I have to meet Lucinda: ninety minutes.

Not long enough, I fear; I feel a bit sick. Really struggling to remember why I thought it a good idea to invite her.

And I feel uncharitable, now.

Ugh.

**17:45**

Never mind trying to remember why I invited Lucinda; _why the fuck did I agree to go in the first place?_

Think it's time I went to a Healer and had a check-up. Maybe my father's mental problems are hereditary and are manifesting themselves within me at a more premature stage.

Now there's a prospect to relish…

**18:45**

Have forced myself into my robes.

Did hope I might trip in them and fall down the stairs to spare myself the impending night, but alas, no such luck was forthcoming.

Maybe I'll Splinch myself during Disapparition…

Maybe I need to get a grip. Or a stiff drink.

I wonder what it is I shall be writing in here when I return…?

**11:45 — Home. **

Well, it's done. I survived, but it was not really a good night, I'm afraid.

It started off well enough. Lucinda looked rather pretty, and when I saw her, I admonished myself for my earlier dread. I told myself I should be grateful she even wanted to be seen with a wreck like me in public.

My spirits rallied… (Merlin; I've made myself sound like some delicate eighteenth century maiden who has taken to her bed with exhaustion…) When we entered the Great Hall (through the main doors!), I couldn't help it, I felt smugly chuffed with myself. For the first time in a long while (if ever) I felt almost normal and surprisingly unselfconscious.

For about five seconds, that is. Then I felt eyes on me.

I gently manoeuvred Lucinda, who was busy staring openly at the ceiling, off to the side so that we were not so directly exposed. Just from a few brief glances, I spied a few of my former students nudging each other with expressions of what I like to think was horror. Nice to know some things never change.

I was about to pull Lucinda away from where she was admiring a stained glass window when I saw them. It was a coven of witches gaping at me.

'What?' I mouthed rudely at them, scowling.

Lucinda was currently examining the Slytherin coat of arms, so I quickly stepped over to our onlookers. I arrived just in time to hear Minerva hiss to Poppy:

'It's off. Quick, run and tell Charlotte it's off. He's brought his own bloody woman!'

'Who the hell is Charlotte?' I demanded.

Minerva flinched.

'Oh, ah, no one for you to worry about…' placated Poppy.

'Wouldn't happen to teach Ancient Runes, would she?' I asked.

'She's been known to step into that classroom…' said Pomona with a smirk.

Before I could ask them what in the name of arse they were thinking, Minerva sniffed and pursed her lips. 'Well, you've certainly kept her quiet.' The look on her face was most accusing as she looked between me and Lucinda.

'Sorry; I'll put an advertisement in the _Prophet_ next time, shall I?'

At least no one had thought to assume she was my daughter. I'm always grateful for small mercies.

I introduced them all to Lucinda, but no sooner had the pleasantries been gone through, I had Horace tugging insistently at my arm.

'A word, please, Severus.'

Turns out he'd discovered a horde of deadly poisonous potions and undetectable lethal powders under a loose flagstone in my old office. Not only that, but apparently they were warded against his touch. He was afraid someone might discover them and report him to the authorities; wanted to know if I'd been aware of them during my time there.

I told him he could dispose of them, as I no longer have need of them in my current line of work.

I'm sure I have hidden away enough questionable mixtures away in Hogwarts to give an Auror an embolism. Can't remember where they are now, though. Oh well, no one can prove they are mine.

'Anything else, Horace?'

He looked at me, a little bit frightened, to my mind. I don't know why. He does know me, after all. I turned to leave, only to find Minerva now vying for my attention.

'Is _Charlotte_ broken hearted?'

'No,' she laughed. 'No, no.'

She looked troubled for a moment and I felt briefly concerned. Briefly, mind. 'Something wrong?'

'Lucinda seems lovely,' she began. 'We were talking, just now, and, ah…'

'Spit it out!'

'Were you, ah, aware that she's a…' Her voice lowered to a whisper. '_A Squib_?'

I nearly laughed. 'Of course I bloody well am!' God, how stupid do people think I am?

She looked surprised, suddenly. I, however, became angry. 'Do you believe me prejudiced, Minerva?' I folded my arms and gave her an uncompromising look.

'Oh, _no_…'

'Well?'

'Oh, come on, Severus! You are the biggest snob there is when it comes to intelligence and magical superiority. You often treat those with lesser strength and knowledge with nothing more than contempt! Or have you forgotten how you used to torment Sibyl?'

'That's because I never liked Sibyl. I like Lucinda, therefore, she is not beneath me.'

'Fine, fine.'

I started making my way back to where I had left Lucinda, only to stop in my tracks, horrified.

She was talking to Potter.

I rushed through the people milling around. Think they realised I was a man on a mission, for some watched me, maybe thinking I was about to blast Potter from all existence. A nice fantasy, I must say.

He saw my approach, damn him, and smirked. 'I'm probably Severus's best friend, you know. Does he talk about me much?'

'Um no,' Lucinda answered. 'He's never mentioned you.'

'Damn right I haven't!' I glared at Potter. 'Run along back to your little friends, why don't you?' I looked across the hall and saw that Weasley and Granger were watching us. I hoped they would stay away all night, too.

'Come, Lucinda,' I said. 'Perhaps there's more of the castle you would like to see?'

As we moved away, I distinctly heard Potter say, 'Yes, and I'm checking the rosebushes later, Snape.'

Right there. Right there, in the middle of the Great Hall, I nearly throttled Harry Potter to death.

I think my hand even twitched at the thought of it. Alas, my liberty is something to be preserved, so I pretended not to have heard him. Unfortunately, matters only became worse. It was announced that dinner would now be served and I hesitated.

When Potter had said _spread_, I thought he'd meant a buffet. Not a dinner.

Tables appeared, and so did Potter, at my elbow. 'Saved you a couple of seats with us, Snape,' he stated, replete with another smirk.

All I wanted to shout was, '_Please_; _no!' _

But it was true. My name appeared over a chair, along with a host of undesirables.

We sat down at the table and I resisted the urge to stab myself with my fork. They were all there: Granger. Weasley. Mrs. Potter. _Longbottom_. Lovegood, amongst others. How honoured I was to be included in their special, self-important group. At least I was glad to see Minerva was there. Can't say the same for Hagrid, of course.

Lucinda looked rather pleased with the company she was in. Poor, naive girl, I thought.

I had barely made any inroads into my starter before I felt my first insistent stab of impatience. Weasley was regaling us with his latest Quidditch triumph.

What a fucking arsehole.

However, I nearly choked on my wine when Lucinda said, entirely seriously: 'I don't follow Quidditch, I'm afraid; what team is it you play for?'

You could have heard a pin drop.

'Oh, the Cannons, of course,' replied Weasley, looking stunned.

'Oops,' Lucinda whispered to me, when the conversation had moved on. 'Should I have known that?'

I gave a small chuckle. 'I am eternally grateful that you didn't.'

While we waited for the next course, Potter and his sidekicks started waxing lyrical over their school days. I tuned them out. Lucinda seemed to be listening with interest, and Minerva, of course, has an unfortunate tendency to indulge her former charges. I drifted back to attention though when Lucinda put her foot in it slightly.

They'd been talking about favourite teachers, and she said teasingly, not realising the significance, 'Severus wasn't your favourite teacher, then?'

A chorus of snorts sounded.

'Like hell,' spat Weasley.

Typically, Potter was looking a bit uncomfortable, and I knew what was about to come and it irritated me exponentially.

'Well, he wasn't so bad, in hindsight—'

'Oh, have a day off, Potter. I was a thorn in your side and you were a veritable harpoon in mine.' He could take the bloody rose-tinted glasses off and step on them, as far as I was concerned.

He looked at me and scowled. '_You_ were the bloody _harpoon_.'

'Shouldn't have been such a nuisance, then, should you?'

'Was hardly Harry's fault if he was a thorn in your side, was it?'

That was Granger speaking. I ignored her. But I must have annoyed her, as her next question nearly made me flinch.

'By the way, how is your father doing?'

There was definitely silence around the table now. She looked at me directly and I gave her a hard stare. How dare she bring that up. I wondered if everyone else could hear the undertone of accusation in her voice, as well. Not that they'd understand it; unless she'd told everyone of our meeting in Yorkshire, that is.

Minerva saved my having to answer. She was looking at me, shocked. '_Your father_?' she asked. 'You never mentioned you had got back in touch with him.'

Granger's expression flickered a little with uncertainty. It was only to shame her that I even remotely considered discussing such a personal matter in such company.

'_I_ did not get in touch with him. He found me, several years ago.'

'And you gave him the light of day?' she asked incredulously. 'Why did you never say?'

Granger now had the grace to look uncomfortable. I watched her, cursing her as the self-righteous, know-it-all person that she is. In time, I turned my attention to my plate, indicating the conversation was at an end.

Minerva knew some of what had happened with my father when I was a child, through Dumbledore, I think, for I certainly never told her. Dumbledore hadn't known until years later, and I wouldn't have told him, either, had I any choice in the matter.

Someone else started up another discussion, but I did not listen. I ate my dinner automatically, hardly tasting it. As soon as manners would allow, I asked Lucinda if she would like to join me for a walk. No one said anything as we left.

We went out into the Entrance Hall and she walked right up to the hourglasses. Slytherin, I noted, are not doing well. Humph.

'What House were you in?'

I nodded towards the yellow stones. 'Hufflepuff,' I said seriously.

'Really?' she asked dubiously. 'I thought they were supposed to be meek and mild?'

Ouch.

She turned now to the portraits. 'Where shall we go? There must be hundreds of places to see.'

Her voice held such wonder, and while I had had it in mind to indulge her, suddenly I felt I could not. There was nothing I wanted to do less than go wandering around the castle. I didn't want to do anything, really. Her enthusiasm for the castle suddenly ignited within me an acute pain that I was hard-pressed to analyse, but felt had been lurking within me more insistently tonight than it had in a long while.

My eyes moved to the plaque commemorating those who had died in the Battle of Hogwarts and all I could think was that I couldn't do it. What would I do? Take her to all the spots from which I have such wonderful memories?

The Astronomy tower?

The Headmaster's study?

The dungeons?

It was ridiculous, I felt. Everything was. Me and her included.

'I'm sorry, Lucinda,' I said. 'I think I should like to go back into the hall.'

I walked off without waiting for a reply and furnished myself immediately with a drink. Eventually, she appeared beside me, looking as awkward as I felt.

'Do you dance?' she asked plainly.

I nearly choked. 'No, I do not,' I answered, before I could think twice. Her face clouded slightly, but what could I do? It was the honest truth.

I turned my attention to the people around us. All looked to be enjoying themselves. Even Granger had a smile on her face. Smiling at Weasley, no less.

But the only feeling I had was that I was kidding myself. I'm not sure how I arrived at that conclusion, but the fact remains that I did. How should I explain it to Lucinda? In the interest of fairness, I knew that I should.

And so, maybe it was guilt that led me to say to her next, 'I think I can make an exception this once. Would you like to dance?'

I think she knew it was half-hearted on my part, as her smile of acquiescence was faint.

There was something rather pleasant about holding her hand. But I felt oddly removed from that little warm tingle, as if it could not reach me emotionally in the way that matters, and I'm beginning to think that nothing ever will.

We danced quite slowly, probably giving the impression of some more romantic interlude than was certainly the case. Reality was, I barely know how to dance, and furthermore, my mind was focused on condemning myself.

Why was I inflicting myself on this woman? She might have a spark of interest in me, but nothing could ever come of it. I certainly did not want to let her think that it would.

I've just read back over my previous writings about finding someone to share my time with. I can see now that it is deluded nonsense. Nothing more, nothing less. Too much has happened in my life, I think, that has affected me in ways I have never really considered.

I can't give of myself any more than I strictly have to. Why else did I joke that I was in Hufflepuff? Might have been a joke on the surface, but, underneath, I recoil at having to explain the person I really am. I always want to deflect a probing interest.

I don't think I will ever feel a proper attraction for someone, again, because my desire to remain known only to myself is just too strong. This whole thing with Lucinda was me vainly trying to ignore this subtle fact, and drawing, I suspect, my interest from an unavoidable sense of gratitude to the first woman to look at me in Merlin knows how long. Pathetic and sad, but unfortunately true.

When the music stopped, I extricated myself. 'Lucinda,' I began.

She cut me off, however, by, well, stepping forward and kissing me. It was soft, and nice, but again, I didn't really feel like it was me standing there. Felt like it was someone else.

From the look on her face she could tell it too. 'It's all right,' she said. 'I can't tell this is not really working.'

'I'm sorry. I just cannot… I can't explain it properly…'

I'm just irretrievably fucked up.

She said she would like to remain friends. I have no issue with that; after all, we have to work together. Except, I'm no good at maintaining friendships either.

We stayed a little while longer. Guilt and disappointment made me make an effort in ensuring she had some enjoyment, so I answered all her questions about Hogwarts with as much enthusiasm as I am capable of. I found during this time that I admired her. She was not one for bitterness, I could see. Were I her, I would have secretly loved the thought of Hogwarts, but outwardly I would have spitefully scorned it, and probably scorned magic as well.

And now I'm home. Back to square one, if, indeed, I ever left it.

Feeling rather melancholic, to be frank. Can't even bring myself to get a drink.

Maybe I'm writing myself off prematurely, but, you know what?

I fucking doubt it.

* * *

AN: Thank you for reading. I'm happy, too, that people are enjoying this.


	5. May

**The Diary of a Nobody**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Sunday 1st May**

**14:15 — Yorkshire.**

My father is quiet today. Or more quiet than usual, anyway. He rarely says much at all unless he is in one of his confused mindsets. He's sleeping now, and I find myself watching him—it's easier to look at him when he is somnolent.

Recently, I've come to realise something else that lay behind my desire to find a partner. It wasn't only that I wished to be like 'everyone else;' it was probably more that I simply do not want to end up like the man in front of me.

However much I might like to avoid the issue, my father and I are alike in more ways than just physical characteristics. We are both by turns impatient, moody, reticent… angry, and disappointed men.

My father is a bitterly disappointed man; disappointed with the life he has lived. The difference between us, in this respect, is that he does not recognise his own culpability. It's everyone's fault he's had a shit life; everyone's fault, but his.

And this is partly why I cannot always look at him without contempt. He does not understand that in his self-absorbed misery, he spoiled life for others, as well.

When they say the apple never falls far from the tree, in this case, I fear it may be so. I can see myself in the future, as twisted and miserable as he is now; despising anyone and everyone; stuck in the past; but most of all, painfully unfulfilled.

I suppose, the one advantage for me is in recognising all this, is that I can make attempts to ensure it does not happen. But as I have come to see, I wonder if it might be inevitable. I can't change now.

Maybe someone will come along someday who I would be able to be myself with, and who will accept me for the person I am. But I cannot set myself the task of looking for them, any longer. If I do, I feel I will continually be disappointed. So then, come what may.

There is nothing that truly decrees I shall end up as bitter and unhappy as my father. It just remains to be seen what _I_ can make of my life.

**14:50**

Perhaps I should have a completely 'fresh' start?

A 'fresh start'— the proverbial clean slate. Back to the drawing board. Starting again. Once read an article in a newspaper about 'forgetting about yesterday' and the importance of 'letting go.'

It was a pile of patronising bollocks.

Can just see myself exiling myself to the Muggle world and taking on a whole new identity—'re-inventing myself.'

Would have to change my name, of course. Hmm… Shall pick the first one I see from the _Yorkshire Evening Post_, on my father's bedside table…

Stanley Pumphrey…

Has a certain ring to it, but, ah… Well, it's picked now; have to stick to it.

I think Stanley Pumphrey would hail from… let me see… Wigglesworth, north Yorkshire, will do.

There we are. Should I ever decide to forget Severus Snape, will transform myself into Stanley Pumphrey, formerly of Wigglesworth, north Yorkshire.

Sounds like a top bloke to me.

**Monday 2nd May**

**11:00 — Office.**

Lucinda doesn't seem to be angry with me for what happened at Hogwarts. I don't think I'm going to have to start worrying about poisoned chocolates and attacks, again. She's still smiling in greeting when I arrive in the mornings. I'm quite relieved. It's a bit of a change having someone look at me without distaste or fear.

Wouldn't want it to start spreading to too many other people though.

That's why Potter unnerves me so much these days. It's just not right without the all-consuming hatred.

**Wednesday 4th May**

**16:15 — Ministry.**

Had to take Miss Moran out into Muggle London this morning. Am supposed to ensure she has enough wits about her to be able to blend into a crowd of Muggles, should she ever need to.

This means no gawping uselessly at computers or televisions and the like; no shouting into telephones; no making a prat of oneself on public transport; no talking to cash machines… The list is endless.

'Have you ever seen Muggle money before?' I asked her the other day, in preparation for our little module on Muggles.

'_Yes_,' she pressed, as if I were being ridiculous. 'It's pounds and pence.'

'Whose is the face that appears on it?'

'The Queen,' she answered briskly, although I noted her expression become a little drawn, and I knew where I was to get my triumph.

'Her name?'

Her eyes narrowed and her reply was a few moments in coming. 'Elizabeth…'

'The…?'

'The what?' She frowned at me.

'What is her ordinal?'

'Her _what_?'

'_Number_.'

'Merlin,' she muttered to herself. 'The fourth?'

'_Wrong_; it's the second. What is the name of the current Prime Minister of the United Kingdom?'

She shook her head and let it fall into her hands. 'It's no good; I honestly have no bloody idea.' She was silent for a moment. 'Not, um, Churchill, is it?'

'Oh, you'll fit in well with a bunch of Muggles, won't you? I can just see you waxing lyrical about how wonderful Elizabeth IV is, and my, isn't Churchill doing a great job running the country from beyond the grave?'

'Well, why should I know these useless things?' she spat out.

'It's called _general knowledge_; having awareness; it's called taking an interest in things beyond the end of your bloody nose!'

'Fine,' she said tetchily. 'I'll read a Muggle newspaper…'

'Take more than a bloody newspaper,' I muttered at her.

She flounced off in a fit of pique. I was glad. For a moment, I thought she might have asked me to clarify just who the Prime Minister is, and that would have been disastrous, because I have absolutely no idea who currently holds that office.

And it wouldn't do to have me exposed as a hypocrite.

Later, we went out into Muggle London, mainly to introduce her to the public transport network. 'It may be necessary for certain 'workers' to go out into Muggle society,' Wilson once told me, speaking so gravely that anyone might think he was revealing the secrets of the universe, not some pointless fact any arsehole could have extrapolated.

'You've been on a train before,' I stated to her. 'Muggle trains are exactly the same.'

Of course, travelling on the Hogwarts Express is not quite the same as the cramped, claustrophobic, crowded, subterranean hell-hole that the London Underground is.

We stood outside an entrance to the Underground near St. Paul's cathedral. 'Give me your wand,' I demanded.

'Get lost,' she hissed rudely. 'Like hell am I giving you my wand!'

'Give me your wand,' I repeated. 'For the next thirty minutes you are going to be a Muggle. Do you understand? Or would you like me to tell Wilson we have hit an immovable stumbling block?'

Her face twisted into a scowl, but she reluctantly removed her wand.

'Here is some money.' I dropped a fiver into her hand. 'I want you to use the Underground to get to Victoria station, where I shall be waiting for you on the concourse. We will be watching your journey back via a Pensieve, so I shall know whether you made a fool of yourself or not.

She looked apprehensive. 'And what if I get lost?'

'What are you? A child?'

She turned on her heel and disappeared down the stairs.

'_Don't_ get yourself arrested, either!' I called after her. I smirked to myself as I found a quiet place in which to Apparate to Victoria. This was always an interesting exercise.

And it's not always just for Purebloods. I had a Muggle-born once, who'd grown up in some desolate Scottish island and had hardly ever set foot in London before. She had a panic attack and couldn't get off the train for over two hours. On the plus side, she got to know the Bakerloo line pretty well.

But mostly it's those entrenched entirely in the Wizarding World that struggle to adapt. I find throwing them in the deep end is the only way to assess their ability to cope with unfamiliar situations.

I arrived at Victoria and made my way into the busy station and placed myself with a view of the entrance to the Underground, so that I might see Miss Moran when she, (should she) arrive. I had to retrieve one boy all the way from Essex, once. Needless to say, we had to let him go, in the end.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the rest of the Muggle money I had on me, whereupon I moved to purchase myself a doughnut. It was Ministry money, after all, so I got myself a coffee, too. I didn't know how long I might have to wait, did I? Had to pass the time somehow.

Bloody worth it, too. Got sugar down me, but nothing a surreptitious charm couldn't fix.

Was contemplating buying another one, when I saw there was someone I knew in the queue. _Fuck_, I thought. Bloody Granger, _again_.

I think she might be following me. It's getting ridiculous now; might have to apply to the Wizengamot for a restraining order.

I was about to hide when she turned around and spotted me. Evidently, she was rather surprised, because she called me '_Professor_ Snape.'

'Hello, Mrs… Whatever-your-name-is…' I greeted irritably.

She frowned. 'Technically, it is still Weasley…'

She gripped her coffee cup and shifted her bag on her arm, looking awkward. For my own part, I was not self-conscious about my Muggle attire, at all. Granted, my tie was a bit garish for my usual tastes. I'm not a big fan of grey.

She raised her head suddenly and opened her mouth. 'There's something I'd like to say—'

I had to cut her off. I'd just spied Miss Moran appearing at the top of the stairs, clinging tightly to the handrail, looking like she was three sheets to the wind. I lifted my hand so that she might see me.

'Just a moment, Mrs Weasley,' I said. 'There's someone I have been waiting for.'

She nodded and glanced in the direction I was stepping in. I crossed over to the stairs and Miss Moran finally saw me. She hurried forwards, looking pale, but she smiled widely on approach.

'Merlin!' she gasped. 'I loved it!'

My heart dropped. Typical. Can't catch her out at anything.

'Very good,' I mumbled, turning back around in order to speak to Granger.

Granger, however, had disappeared. God, is there no end to her rudeness? Bloody bint. Next time I see her, and let's face it, on previous form it looks like I will soon, I'm going to show her exactly what rude means.

**17:15 — Home.**

I'm still laughing to myself about Miss Moran's train journey. I took the journey with her in the Pensieve, and the sight of her clinging on to the escalator with such a deathly grip is just too funny.

I'm not even going to start on her getting past the ticket barrier. Let's just say she received some odd looks.

Still, she proved she wasn't entirely incompetent; should give credit where it's due.

Nah.

**Thursday 12th May**

**15:00 — Office.**

Saw Potter in the canteen today.

What went on at Hogwarts last month is still fresh in my mind, and so I was prepared to take my pie and chips to the furthest corner of room. Except, on passing Potter, I found him staring forlornly at a plate of salad leaves.

Immediately, I sat down opposite.

'Don't mind if I join you, Potter? My plate is just too heavy to carry any further, I'm afraid.'

He looked resentfully at my steaming plate of fat and cholesterol.

'What's with the vegetation?' I asked, when he carried on stuffing leaves into his mouth, chewing them with a pained grimace.

'Ginny has told me to cut down on what I eat at lunchtimes. Says I'm putting on weight.'

I clicked my tongue disapprovingly. Yet another reason why I was better off sticking to my own company, then. I would hardly appreciate hen-pecking about my calorific intake.

'We're going to Hermione's for dinner tonight, so I will make up for it then. She's a great cook.'

'Is she now?' I replied blandly. Good for her. Is there anything she can't bloody do? Perhaps she can solve world hunger while she's peeling the potatoes.

'Not really looking forward to it, though.' Potter continued, sifting through his lettuce gingerly. 'Ron's going to be there. Think there might be some reconciliation on the cards—'

I am sorry to say, but I almost choked on my pie crust. 'Dead in the water, all that, wasn't it?' I asked casually.

Potter nodded. 'I thought so, too. I'm happy for them, I suppose; I just hope it doesn't go down the toilet again.'

This news had an odd effect on me, for some reason. My appetite rather deserted me. In the end, I found myself making up some excuse about getting back to the office, and I left my half-eaten plate to Potter's mercy.

Bloody Granger and bloody Weasley were giving it another go were they? More the fool her, I decided.

Everyone knows Weasley is a wanker.

What in the name of arse does she see in him?

How is it that Weasley the Wanker can get a woman, but I cannot? How is it that Weasley _the_ _Wanker_ can play away from home and then be given _another chance_? How? It just does not compute.

**16:45 — My Office.**

I still can't work it out.

**17:30pm. Home.**

Fuck!

What the hell is going on?

Lucinda has just told me she has found herself a boyfriend. Already! Walked past her desk and she randomly said 'All right, Severus? I'm going out with a bloke tonight.'

Think she might have been a little bit irked, after all.

Serves me right, I suppose.

Oh, what do I care, really? Have accepted possibility of permanent life of solitude. No more thoughts will be spent on this relationship nonsense. Think I should focus on my career, instead. After all, that was one of my New Year goals, too. Yes, shall work to be top of my game, higher even than civil rights barrister Hermione Granger.

Just need to work out precisely what my game is.

**Monday 16th May**

**Noon — My Office.**

Have spent all morning pondering possible career moves. Why should I spend any longer in this pokey little shit-hole in the Ministry? Surely there are better and more productive ways in which I can spend my time and talent?

Can immediately cross out certain professions. Am definitely not suited for a life of Healing or Mediwizardry. Have precious little bedside manner to speak of; next to no people skills…

Have no desire whatsoever to become crime-fighting Auror. I'll leave that illustrious career to the Potters of this world.

Let's see… What am I good at? What do I _know_?

Have plentiful experience in teaching, but… am not going back to that (I realise I'm practically a teacher in my current job, but it's not actually my job description).

Have plentiful experience of all-round espionage and deception. Irony, therefore, is the job I am probably best suited for is the one I am doing, except being slightly further up the food chain. They've made it perfectly clear I shall never be an Unspeakable, though, and I'm not going to lower myself to asking.

Am exceptional potioneer, but there appears to be very little money to be made from such skill. Consider my palliative to nicotine addiction. I've not been able to make any profit from it. Smoking in the Wizarding world is not deemed the problem it is in the Muggle world. But I can hardly sell a potion to the Muggles; except on the black market, but I want a career that's above board.

Stupid Statute of Secrecy.

In theory, I could make millions there.

God, I could peddle any number of concoctions and make a fortune with nary a click of my fingers. Still, money is really not my main motivation, as I would like to know how it feels to have 'job satisfaction.'

Could I be a writer? There might be a little too much job satisfaction and not enough money there, however, and one does need to be practical about this sort of thing.

Could I set up a business? No… too much effort needed for that.

Oh, I just don't know. Am stuck here for the foreseeable future, it seems.

Shall now return to my filing.

**Saturday 21st May**

**22:00 — Home.**

_Shit_!

Have just remembered that it's Minerva's birthday tomorrow and I haven't bought her anything.

If it were up to me, I'd let the whole occasion pass, but a couple of years ago, she refused to talk to me for three weeks because I forgot her birthday.

I'll never understand some people.

I'll run in and buy her a flea collar on my way to the Three Broomsticks tomorrow.

**Sunday 22nd May**

**21:00 — The Three Broomsticks. Hogsmeade.**

The fact that I am even writing this entry from the pub will highlight what a shit night this is. Guess who has been seated next to me all night?

Bloody _Charlotte_.

Could have cursed Minerva to hell and back. My fault, of course; shouldn't have told her Lucinda and I are going nowhere.

At least this Charlotte looks as pissed off as I am. Although, I haven't actually said a word to her all night, so I don't know what she is thinking.

...

Am so bored. All they are talking about is Hogwarts this and Hogwarts that. Filius is looking a bit bored, too, mind. Maybe I'll challenge him to a drinking game. Just as long as Hagrid doesn't get involved, it should be all right.

**Monday 23rd May**

**Noon — My bed.**

Can't believe I had to Floo-call in sick today.

Apparently, I wasn't fit to Apparate home last night. Minerva, it seems, wasn't at all impressed, and Filius and myself found ourselves dumped in the staff room on returning to the castle.

Was Hagrid's fault. He's a bad influence on us lesser folk. He can swill down pints and they don't touch the sides.

Still, he did not escape unscathed. Wasn't _me_ who fell asleep in my own pumpkin patch to wake up with bird crap on my face, after all.

**Thursday 26th May**

**13:00 — Lunchtime. Ministry.**

Still can't think of potential new career.

**18:00 — Home.**

Buggering hell.

Minerva sent me a Floo this afternoon, enquiring if I were sufficiently recovered after the antics on Sunday. Personally, I felt this enquiry after the lapse of three days superfluous, and a bit negligent actually, but I didn't say anything to that effect.

However, it wasn't this point that has caused me to consider turning my wand on myself. She asked me if she had really seen me with the diary she had bought as a gift for me.

I told her she had, and I dryly mentioned that I have been writing in it, hoping to get my boring, pedestrian life published.

'Well,' she said, 'I can't see many would want to read about your drunken antics and your complete dissatisfaction with the world and everyone in it.'

(How harsh was that?)

'You should have kept a diary during the War. Would have been worth millions now.'

! ! !

How bloody right was she? _A war diary_. Why did I never think of it?

People would be biting my hand off for _'The Diary of a Death Eater._' Or maybe _'The Memoirs of a Double-Agent_.'

Perhaps I could write it retrospectively?

_'The Life and Times of Severus Snape: Spymaster_.'

Or:

_'Severus Snape: The War Years_.'

Followed by volume two: _'Severus Snape: The Crap, Boring, Pointless Years Where he is Stuck in a Dead-End Job_.'

A nice fancy, but no, I'd never really want anything published about me, regardless of the amount of Galleons in it. The thought of my life splashed in print makes me want to shrivel up and die.

Maybe I should not abandon idea of being a writer, though. There could be mileage in it. I have a lot of life experience from which to draw on…

What about…

'_Stanley Pumphrey: The War Years'_?

No… that would just be silly, wouldn't it.

Very silly.

Hmm…

Back to the drawing board, then.

Humph.

* * *

AN: Thanks for reading and reviewing : )


	6. June

**The Diary of a Nobody**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Wednesday 1st June**

**10:00 — Office. **

_Stanley Pumphrey stood in his classroom, scowling deeply at the children seated before him. _

'_If I catch anyone messing around with the Bunsen burners again, you will, every single one of you, be in detention for a month! Is that clear?'_

_A sea of meek nods was all he received in reply. _

'_You have one hour in which to complete your experiments.'_

_Stanley returned to his desk. God, he hated teaching. He sighed to himself and reached for some exercise books. He was looking for a red pen when he felt something vibrate in his pocket. It was his phone. _

_A feeling of dread rose within him as he surreptitiously extracted it. On the screen he saw that it was a message, which said:_

'_Meeting tonight at seven. Don't be late.'_

_Oh no, thought Stanley; not another one._

_He would have to inform the headmaster that he would be leaving the grounds tonight. Brian would, as usual, tell him to be careful—the usual empty words. Wasn't as if Brian had to risk life and limb, was it? Stanley thought that..._

No.

This _was_ a silly idea. I can't sell my story to the Muggles. Not even Muggles are going to find a Chemistry teacher doubling up as a spy very plausible.

Clearly, cannot be a writer; Stanley Pumphrey is just not going to make it as a character. I could maybe stick to dry old academic writing, but...

Bah.

What the fuck am I going to do with my life?

**Friday 3rd June**

**21:00 — Home.**

Terrible prospect looming.

Annual commemoration of the fall of Voldemort is coming up next week, with a big get-together being organised at the Ministry by the usual self-congratulating bureaucrats.

Really don't want to go—I don't want to commemorate any-bloody-thing.

However, I can't deny that it would be rather rude and disrespectful of me not to attend. Kingsley was the one to issue the invitations. I'm not sure even I have the front to ignore a request from the Minister for Magic himself.

I will show my face, and no one can argue with that.

The only plus is that Wilson has been green with envy all week. He is your typical social climber. He'd give his right arm to hob-nob with the rich and worthless of the Ministry.

No one ever seems to ask what role they played in the war, do they? Suppose the answer goes without saying.

Scarily enough, even Miss Moran seems to be looking at me a little more appraisingly.

'Ah yes,' she said ponderously, earlier in the week. 'You have an Order of Merlin, don't you?'

She's easily impressed, clearly. As long as she doesn't start flashing me some leg, in the hopes of wrangling an invitation, I'll be fine.

Awful image of Wilson flashing me _his_ leg in the hope getting an invite has just invaded my brain.

Am now going to _Obliviate_ self. Repeatedly.

**Tuesday 7th June**

**11:00 — Office.**

Have been looking at job vacancies today in the _Daily Prophet_. There's a job going as a chef in the Leaky Cauldron. Don't think so. There's also a vacancy for a shop assistant in Eeylops Owl Emporium. Don't think so. Do I want to be a Floo-cleaner? Nope.

Have list of internal vacancies within the Ministry, too.

There's an opening for a legal secretary. Now there's an awful thought. I could apply for that and possibly end up as Hermione Granger's dogsbody! How wonderful would that be?

Would rather spend the rest of my life cleaning out the bird cages at the post office. By hand.

There is vacancy for a Public Relations officer. Don't bloody think so.

Oh. There's one that I think could suit me well: Muggle liaison workers. I'd be bloody marvellous at that job! Dealing with people is probably my number one talent.

There is nothing for me; am stuffed. Will spend rest of life in this pokey room, staring at these same four walls, dealing with the same trivial problems, while my brain slowly shrivels up from lack of use.

Merlin. This is my life.

Sometimes, I really have to wonder how I can even bring myself to get out of bed in the morning. Must have extraordinary strength of character.

**Saturday 11th June**

**18:45 — Home.**

Off to the Ministry tonight, then.

Have to wear my Order of Merlin, and not to put too fine a point on it, but I look like a knob. The ribbon is bloody bright red, for crying out loud. I can't stand it! Would be okay if I could just pin it on my chest, but no, have to wear it around my bloody neck!

I wonder if anyone would think less of me if I said I'd lost my Order of Merlin?

'Whoops!' I'll say to the Minister. 'I accidentally put it out with the rubbish last week! What am I like!'

Have been tempted to melt it down, in the past. I think there might be some useful properties in it that would be handy for re-surfacing some of my knackered cauldrons. It's always an option, anyway.

I'm not bothering to alter my robes tonight. With this ghastly red thing around me, there's no way I can bring any colour other than black and white into the equation. Besides, am no longer required to make any particular effort, now that I have abandoned my previous fancy of attracting a female.

…

The clock is ticking away, but I am just sitting here, hoping Armageddon is imminent.

I can't even look forward to the prospect of downing a few whiskies and getting sloshed.

Would hardly be proper of me to be seen stumbling about amongst the dignitaries, would it?

It's a pleasant image, mind. In my opinion, there should be more people willing to cause such offensive scenes at these events.

At least then I'd be entertained.

Humph. Off I go.

**Midnight**

Am home and am feeling pleasantly tipsy. The night was still, as anticipated, a shit one, but yes, I'm pleasantly tipsy. Tipsy is always a pleasant halfway-house. I like the feeling of indifference it lends me; it's very pleasant, indeed…

Am going to go and make a warm drink. Tipsy may be pleasant, but it has addled my brain; I hate the word _pleasant_…

...

Right, then. Well, I arrived at the Ministry to find a roomful of other knobs garlanded with red ribbon. I stood there and thought, much bewildered, 'My God; these are my contemporaries.'

Never did I think I would end up having to associate with all these do-gooders and pompous Ministry arsewipes.

It was all I could do not to yank off that manacle of a medal and flee.

Wilson, of course, would do no such a thing. He would have wet himself.

I decided it wouldn't be very decorous of me to make a beeline straight for the bar, as is my wont, so, instead, I glanced around for someone I might know.

Alas, I made eye contact with Potter. I tried to pretend I hadn't clocked him, but then the idiot started waving me over to his little gathering of confederates. I was reluctant, of course, but on seeing Hermione Granger's stony looking expression, felt it my duty to comply. I'd certainly not forgotten her abrupt behaviour with me that day I saw her on the Underground.

'Good evening,' I said silkily, taking in the fact that Ronald 'the Wanker' Weasley was almost glued to his formerly estranged wife's side. I have possibly never seen anyone look as gormless as Weasley does. Unfortunately for him, it seems to be getting progressively worse as he ages.

'How's things?' asked Potter. 'Haven't seen you around much, lately.'

Both Granger and Weasley looked mildly intrigued at Potter's casual manner with me.

'They're fine,' I said in a clipped voice.

There was quiet for a moment and I thought about moving on, when Hermione Granger suddenly piped up, saying:

'On your own tonight, Mr Snape?' She fixed me with what I would probably have to term her 'accusing barrister look'. 'It's not often I see you out of the company of some young lady or other, these days.'

I stared at her, hardly believing she'd actually said such a thing. Mind, she hardly needed to. The look in her eyes seemed to disclose enough contempt as it was.

Weasley, meanwhile, smirked at Potter, who nodded at me approvingly. 'Nice one!'

'I am alone, yes,' I answered stiffly. 'Not everyone needs the company of another to feel validated.' I glanced specifically from her to Weasley, and my pride sparked to see the faint glimmer of discomfort cross her face, knowing that she had understood my words perfectly.

I took my leave then, having no desire to spend any longer in her company. Who does she think she is?

Just who are these women I've been seen out with? Lucinda and Miss Moran? Well, that's certainly risible behaviour on my part, isn't it!

I could have pointed this out to her, of course, but I didn't because of the principle of the thing. Why should I defend myself to her?

I got myself a drink and nearly downed it in one.

'Young;' why had she used the word '_young'?_

Thinks it disgusting, does she? Thinks I'm some kind of creepy, dinosaur of a man preying on young women, does she?

Well, alone I may be, but I'd rather be that than have to go crawling back to an idiot like Weasley. She's probably realised he's the only one who can put up with her. Don't know who I feel more sorry for. Think it might actually be Weasley.

Despite myself, I felt rather deflated for the rest of the night. I eventually found Minerva lurking about—looking as uncomfortable as I felt—and we spent the rest of the evening avoiding having to talk with jumped-up Ministry types by surreptitiously warding the table we were sat at. There were moments when I thought about that cow Granger, though. First she gets all hoity-toity about my father and now she gets on her high horse over my choice of companion. Ugh.

I watched her for a time, hating myself all the while for doing it. She danced a bit with Weasley, and though I witnessed some small smiles about the mouth, I'd be hard pressed to describe her as enthusiastic towards him. And as I watched them, I fear I might have felt something conspicuous only by its absence during my six month quest to change my life—actual, real, _proper_ _envy_.

I hasten to add that I am not envious of Weasley or Granger themselves, just what they stand for, I suppose. Ugh. It left such a remarkably bitter taste in my mouth that not even the best malt could cleanse it. I did not want to be forced to dwell on it further; what need have I for physical reminders of my own pathological unworthiness?

And so, as soon as I could, I left.

I felt eyes upon me as I skirted the dance floor and headed towards the doors, and though I did not look to ascertain, I felt that, if I had, I would have seen Granger watching me.

The satisfaction could be hers, then, for that is it for me. No more shall I attend these pointless, superficial, trite get-togethers.

No more.

**Sunday 12th June**

**11.00 — Withernsea. Yorkshire.**

On account of absence of hangover from last night and, regrettably, from continued preoccupation with Hermione Granger, have travelled north to visit my father. The place actually looks pleasant today. The sun is shining and the waves are much less tumultuous than their usual. Even my father is in a good (ish) mood.

He recognised me straight away and was rather loquacious from the off. I still find it odd that some times he will sit there and chatter away to me at length. I can barely remember ever having a proper conversation with him in my early years. But of course, he is much changed now, and much _changeable_. I never quite know who I am to find in the house when I visit, so many sides does he have now.

He was no less prone to confusion today, however, despite his good mood. 'Wha' on earth 'av yer got in thy 'and?' he asked loudly when I removed my wand to re-strengthen the Warming Charm in the room.

'Nothing,' I replied swiftly, hiding my wand from view, knowing it was pointless trying to explain what it was.

He started talking about my mother, then. He rambled on about something she had said to him, apparently only yesterday, but in reality it had to have been well over twenty years ago, if indeed it had actually ever happened. I knew what would come next; he would ask where she was.

Times like that, when he would look regretful that she was not there, I could almost pretend he'd really cared about her. Funny really; until recently, I never knew my father's face was capable of making such marked expressions of happiness or sadness.

Though he might wax a little sentimental about my mother, he never said a great deal about me. Not that I really wished him to, as I knew it was only ever the illness talking.

Were it not so, he would never talk fondly of my mother; he'd still able to recollect the full reality of the marriage and their terrible treatment of each other.

The Warming Charm was having its effect and I reached up to open my shirt collar. I sighed and leant my head back, which was a mistake.

'Wha' 's wrong wi' thy neck?'

I closed my eyes tiredly. My father had never known anything of Voldemort; I was hardly about to explain it all now.

'I got in a fight,' I said dryly.

'I 'ope yer gave 'em wha' for!'

I nearly laughed at the irony. Nearly, mind; I don't think wounds to the jugular can ever be a laughing matter.

The nurse came in before I left, telling me what I already knew—that he should no longer be left on his own for any protracted length of time.

'Have you suggested a nursing home?' she asked.

I knew my father would throw himself off the cliffs before ever agreeing to such a thing.

**Thursday 16th June**

**18:30 — Office.**

Overtime.

Have been forced to do overtime tonight for the first time in, well, ever. Am not amused. Wilson has ordered me to prepare my office ready for a departmental audit in the morning. Could he have given me _less_ notice? My office is a fucking tip, and he knows it.

Bastard.

Have been knee-deep in papers and files all evening. There are things I have kept under the maxim of 'might need it one day,' but I can't fathom why. Now torn between binning it all, or keeping it.

Will bin it. Don't care.

Am not unduly concerned. It's all an inside job, anyway: the auditors are all Ministry employees.

Democracy in action. You can't beat it.

Think I'll go and see if the canteen is still open; need a brew.

**20:00 — Home.**

Well, well, _well_.

I did indeed go to the canteen and procure a cup of tea. There were a few stragglers sitting in the room and I actually flinched at the sight that greeted me. What the hell, I wondered, was Hermione Granger doing in the canteen at seven o'clock in the evening?

I was more than prepared to pretend I hadn't seen her, but she called out to me. 'Hello,' she said.

I approached where she sat at a table. 'Slumming it, are we?' I asked derisively, stirring my tea.

She looked momentarily taken aback, before nodding towards the seat opposite her. 'Please,' she said.

I looked around disdainfully before seating myself.

She didn't say anything for a moment, but looked preoccupied. Eventually, she sucked in a breath. 'It was a while ago, but I would like to apologise for the rude way I spoke to you at the reunion… I think I might have offended you the last time we met, as well.'

I shrugged dismissively. I suppose I did appreciate her taking the time to regret the incidents, but I was hardly about to admit she had caused me any irritation.

'What I should have said,' she continued cautiously, 'and I don't know whether it is still relevant to you now, or whether it is too late, but I should have liked to have warned you about, um, associating with Helena Moran.'

I frowned deeply and she hurried on. 'I've seen you together a few times and wanted to say something… She's bad news, I think…'

I very nearly gaped as realisation dawned. Thinks I'm shagging Miss Moran does she?

I wi—

No. I won't go there.

'Miss Moran is my latest recruit into the Department of Mysteries.' I announced, almost laughing.

Her face turned suddenly red. 'Oh,' she said quietly, rubbing a self-conscious hand over her face. '_Oh_, I see, um, forgive me, I just assumed…' She trailed off and sighed deeply.

Just assumed I was a seedy old man, apparently. I recalled her abrupt behaviour that time on the Underground. 'Do you have a particular issue with Miss Moran?'

She looked uncomfortable and indecisive. 'Well… Oh, I suppose you might as well know. She was after Ron at one point and I… I actually caught them once. A drunken kiss was all it was, but I knew it could have gone further. In any case, it was the straw that broke the camel's back, shall we say.'

I watched her fidget and a small rueful smile touched her lips. Not sure I want to evaluate what kind of effect it had on me.

'And yet,' I said smoothly, 'the camel's back was not _quite_ broken…'

Probably shouldn't have said that, in hindsight. Although, am fairly certain it came out sounding more concerned than… anything else. Something for which I can thank my hitherto perennially unlucky stars.

When she looked at me there was such an air of vulnerability about her that I had to stop myself from shouting out, 'For crying out loud Granger, Weasley's a fucking wanker! You can do far better than him!'

'Well, he knows he's on his final chance…'

There was nothing I wanted to say to that, and in the ensuing silence an uncomfortable tension descended. She looked down at her drink and I looked at her barrister's robes.

'How's life in the Wizengamot?' I ventured.

She raised her eyebrows and exhaled loudly. 'Fine… Although I… Ah, I lost a case today.' She smiled self-deprecatingly.

Oh, dear me. Granger's admitted a fallibility. Whatever next?

'Right… I don't suppose you realise there are far better places to drown your sorrows?'

Shows how unused to failure she is. If it were me, I'd be laced up to the eyeballs with whisky by now, lamenting my own inadequacy. But then, not everyone is so pathetically embroiled in their own personal shortcomings. Easy to forget that not everyone's level of self-esteem is non-existent.

She chuckled slightly. 'It was quiet here…'

I nodded. 'You didn't fancy a dangerous stroll across the cliffs today, then?'

'No,' she said. 'I couldn't be bothered with the Apparating, really. So, how about you? How is life in—'

She broke off suddenly, and I was glad because how on earth do I reply to 'How is life in the Department of Mysteries?'

The proper answer is, 'Oh, I couldn't possibly say; in fact, I'm forbidden from talking of it.'

While, in fact, the honest reply is, 'Oh, the usual; filing, tidying, twiddling my thumbs, waiting for death… Yes, very much the usual.'

But when I saw the reason for her sudden silence, my relief evaporated. It was her drip of a husband, clad in his Quidditch regalia. What a child. There's no plausible reason why he should be in his Quidditch robes anywhere other than on the pitch.

'There you are, Hermione!' he exclaimed. 'I wondered where you were!'

He looked at me and nodded tightly, though there was a faint look of unease on his face.

'Listen, shall we go home? My, ah, mother needs us to be at the Burrow later.'

'Oh, right,' said Granger. 'Excuse me, um, Severus.'

Oh, I'm Mr. Snape when I'm spreading myself around with young ladies, but I'm _Severus_ when it's clear I am a useless nobody with no one, actually, in my life. I do so always enjoy making other people feel better about themselves.

Turns out, though, that wasn't the worst of it. As they walked off, I overheard Weasley say:

'Merlin; good job I came in when I did! Looks like you needed rescuing.'

Lovely. Just lovely.

Stupid fuckwit.

**Wednesday 22nd June**

**14:00 — Ministry.**

Have found out something rather damning today. Can't quite believe what a position it's put me in. Am not entirely sure what I shall do about it.

Miss Moran is nearing the end of her training with me and today I began the final element. I have begun testing her proficiency in Occlumency. She decreed herself a competent Occlumens, but naturally, she'd never been confronted with me before, so I entirely disregarded her claim.

In any case, as things transpired, I pretty much walked into her mind unhindered. She was very embarrassed and indignant at the ease with which I did it. It took several attempts before she could get even the remotest shield up against me. Ha!

Things unravelled a bit for her then. It's always the same in such situations. She got a bit frustrated and flustered, and with an unwanted intrusion to one's mind, it's nearly inevitable that those most closely guarded thoughts and feelings will rush traitorously to the fore.

In the case of Miss Moran, it was no less true. The more perturbed she got, the clearer and more focused were the images. I caught flashes of scenes that, of course, meant nothing to me. I had not one iota of interest in what she got up to in her spare time, until, that is, _Ronald Weasley _turned up.

Oh yes. Am probably scarred for life after the sight of Weasley the Wanker _in flagrante_.

Note to self: must gouge eyes out at some point today.

Anyway, as soon as my wits would allow, I broke the connection and looked at Miss Moran appraisingly. Suddenly, her legs meant nothing to me. All I felt was contempt.

'That was a long time ago,' the girl muttered uncomfortably.

'Was it now?'

She nodded grimly and spoke plainly. 'Hermione Granger is better off without him, in my view.'

I found that statement rather interesting. 'Well, it's nothing to do with me,' I remarked dismissively, but nevertheless, I felt that it was.

I concluded our session for the day and sat at my desk to ponder.

_A drunken kiss was all it was, but I knew it could have gone further. _

Oh, Granger. _Could_ have? Of course it had bloody gone further!

A common-place, weak little man like Weasley would fall hook, line and sinker for Miss Moran's legs.

I felt such a huge swell of disgust for Weasley that I wanted to get my wand out and start blasting my office apart. What a trite, predictable arse he is.

I do not know what I should do with this information; if, indeed, I should do anything. It might delight me to see Weasley get his comeuppance, and to know that it was I who brought it about…

But…

I'm not sure that it is wise for me to simply waltz up to Hermione Granger and tell her that her husband was shagging someone else. I've a sneaking suspicion she may not thank me for it. Furthermore, I haven't actually got any physical proof as to Weasley's nefarious deed.

It's even possible, I suppose, that Granger might already know of his transgression and was just saving face when talking of it to me. In which case, it's all a moot point, isn't it?

Shall mull it over, but expect I'll simply have to keep it to myself.

Magnanimity personified.

We Slytherins are very good at being magnanimous...

* * *

AN: Finally managed to upload this after several days of trying. Many thanks to Cave Felem for beta-reading this chapter for me!

Thanks for reading and reviewing.


	7. July

**The Diary of a Nobody**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Tuesday 5th July**

**18:45 — Home. Waiting for cauldron to boil. **

Still thinking, intermittently, of the news I discovered about Weasley.

Wonder how he would respond to blackmail?

Just pondering… !

Would not, really, resort to such reprehensible measures, of course… Besides, Weasley has nothing I want.

Hmm… Am finding it rather boring being magnanimous, mind, for I hate the thought of Weasley getting away with something so important as cheating on one's wife and then lying about it. And after all they've been through together, too...

Yet, Granger may be an uppity do-gooder who looks down her nose at me, but I do not have any particular reason to wish her ill. Now, if it were just Weasley, let's just say his escapades would be all over the _Prophet_ by now.

Probably; it would certainly be considered…

(I fully realise I have no particular reason to wish Weasley ill, either. Would be much easier if I did.)

I suppose it is wrong of me to take pleasure in the misfortune of others, yet I can't help but feel heartened to have real proof that not everyone's life is as rosy as it seems on the surface. Thought it was just mine. Not that my life has _ever _had even a patina of rosy hue; not on the surface nor anywhere else. Black hole, more like.

Even I would like company descending into that abyss, I'm sorry to admit.

**Friday 8th July**

**12:30 — Office. **

Have spent the last half an hour with my head on the desk.

Work seems to have become infinitely more tedious lately. Feels like I may be perilously close to cracking up. Not that anyone would notice if I had a nervous breakdown in my tiny, stupid, claustrophobic, dingy, horrible office. Voldemort couldn't break me, but I fear drudgery very well might.

At least there's peace and quiet today.

Lucinda isn't working, so, thankfully, I don't have to put up with her breezing about, humming and smiling to herself. Think she must do it on purpose, but I'm not sure what she's trying to achieve. If she's not careful, I'm going to hex her.

Furthermore, Helena Moran is off having Ministry driving lessons. When I first started in this position, Wilson suggested I might do well to have lessons myself, so that I might make use of the Ministry cars when training recruits, or, indeed, simply to 'learn a new skill'.

I told him to fuck off.

When the hell would I possibly ever need to drive a car? I don't bloody go anywhere beyond the Ministry, my father's house, and my own. His aim, no doubt, was not just to generously give me the chance to acquire a 'new skill,' but to somehow rope me in to teaching bloody driving, as well. Would be a cost-cutting measure, or some rot like that.

Putting on my most concillatory face, I told him, 'I'll give flying lessons, if you want.'

'Most people know how to use a broom, Snape.'

'Who said anything about a broom?'

Upon which, he simply walked off looking slightly disturbed.

God, I'm so _bored_. Have got some forms I should be filling in, but… can't physically bring myself to pick up my quill.

Perhaps I shall spend the rest of my day job-hunting.

Am determined to get out of this dump by the end of the year. Indeed, I've been imagining how wonderful it will be to marching into Wilson's office and slapping down my notice.

Will be magnificent and eminently eloquent. Shall write a rough draft of it here.

_Dear Archibald,_

_Pray shove your shitty job where the sun doesn't shine._

_Regards,_

_Severus_

**Wednesday 13th July**

**11:00 — Ministry.**

Miss Moran was here this morning, and my, she's a sly one. Think she's still rather smarting over the Occlumency incident.

She wafted in, as she usually does, and I unwittingly opened myself to her machinations when I disinterestedly observed that she had 'survived the motoring experience intact.'

'I enjoyed it very much,' she said brightly, before her voice turned patronising. 'It's quite complicated and challenging at first. There's such a lot of things one must remember and be aware of. But with practice, it all comes together, I think.'

There was a pointed pause that I did not, at the time, heed; but it turned out to be a precursor to a casually put, 'Do you drive, Mr Snape?'

'No,' I said automatically. I regretted my haste immediately.

Her expression became rather smug. 'Ah… I didn't think so. It's not for everyone, you know. Got my theory test next week.' She lifted up a textbook and turned around to read it.

I stared at her, almost crushing my quill in my hand, I was so incensed. God, I bloody wish I'd taken Wilson up on his offer now. Hate it when people think they have one over on me. Especially when it's a young, confident, annoying girl who has a fast-track to the top while I languish forever in the dungeons. _Hate_ know-it-alls! Argh!

'I don't drive, Miss Moran,' I found myself saying, 'but that does not mean I cannot.'

She swivelled around and looked at me thoughtfully, and I fear, a little doubtfully, too. 'Oh… Well, fair enough, then.'

She turned back to her book, swinging her hair behind her with a flick. I stared down at my parchments and grimaced.

Oh my Lord.

Stupid pride!

**Sunday 17th July**

**Noon —Home_._**

For the love of… !

Have just received an _Owl_ from Potter, inviting me to his birthday party.

How old is he? He's not going out for some drinks, or dinner, or anything. No, he's having a _birthday party _at his house. Will there be pumpkin jelly and ice-cream, I wonder? Exploding pass-the-parcel?

Well, I'm_ not going!_

Wish he'd leave me alone. It's getting a bit embarrassing now.

**Tuesday 19th July**

**10:30 — Office.**

Miss Moran has gone to have her driving theory test today. Should have seen the look she gave me when she left. Talk about smug; ugh, am going to hex her, too, if she's not careful.

She left her textbook behind and I know she did it on purpose. Well, it worked, because I have picked it up and have been flicking through it all morning.

Starting to wish I hadn't. It all looks very technical and complicated to my uninitiated eyes. Am suddenly rather determined to prove that I am capable of handling a motor car, even if only to myself.

Can't be that hard: must be millions of idiots out on the roads.

Have to admit that much of it is gibberish to me, though. The 'brake' and 'accelerator' are pretty much self-explanatory, but what, pray, is a 'clutch?' Doesn't help that I've only ever been in a car once or twice in my entire life.

I hate it when this happens. I _hate_ getting these things into my head and then they won't go. I don't need to learn to drive. I don't _need_ to bother with this.

But…

I can't help it if I have a pathological need to be omniscient.

Omniscience may be taking things too far; however, the point is, when I said previously that I 'hate know-it-alls,' what I meant was that I hate _other_ know-it-alls.

Show me a know-it-all who enjoys spending company with other know-it-alls!

No one likes to be reminded of certain inferiorities, least of all know-it-alls. The greatest fear a know-it-all can have is having a gap in one's knowledge pointed out by a fellow know-it-all. It just cannot be borne.

That's my defence, anyway,

It's not as if I have anything else calling on my time today; shall have a read through and see if I can make any sense of this driving lark. Am concerned that Miss Moran knows I am a liar and will try to catch me out. And I just cannot allow that to happen. Never.

I wonder… My father has a car he doesn't use anymore…

Hmm…

**Saturday 23rd July**

**15:00 — Yorkshire. East Riding.**

Am sitting in my father's car, in his garage, trying to pluck up the courage to turn the engine on. Worse than that, my father is actually sitting next to me. It's taken us an hour to get to this point. When I asked him for the keys to the car, and relayed my intentions, all he exclaimed was:

'Forty-five an' yer dun' bloody know 'ow to drive yet?'

I sighed. 'I'm a wizard, father, remember? I fly, instead.'

There was a stricken look on his face for a moment, but I think he decided to pretend not to have heard me. Next thing I knew, to my horror, I might add, he was throwing off his bedcovers and announcing:

'I'll learn thee!'

Yes, I thought, and then _I'll_ teach you how to speak intelligibly.

'Father, you are not well enough—'

'O' course I am!'

'Do you even remember how to drive?'

'O' course I do!'

He put his hand to his mouth and looked distant for a moment. 'Can't remember where t' keys are, though.'

Easily remedied. '_Accio_ car keys,' I said.

Even after all this time, and even through the torpor induced by his ill health, he always manages to look uneasy at the use of magic. For the next five minutes, he wore this wary expression, as if I were going to suddenly shift the earth off its axis or upset the natural balance of things and revert the force of gravity.

I tried again. 'You shall stay here—'

'Nay! Does thee think I like bein' stuck up 'ere all t' time? I'm well enough to sit i' bloody car!'

He can barely bloody walk without coughing up a lung.

'Look—'

'Nay!' he shouted.

I could tell he was beginning to get agitated, and so, to shut him up and keep the peace, I Apparated us down into the garage, wishing I'd never bloody thought of this in the first place.

Hardly a good idea, is it? Who knows, really, what my father's state of mind is like. He might get it into his head that this is some terrible suicide or euthanasia pact and grab the wheel to steer us straight off the cliff.

Also, there is the uncomfortable realisation that this is the first thing we have done together since, well, ever, probably.

'Pu' tha' book away 'n start t' engine!'

Oh; lucky me.

**16:00**

Am alive.

So is my father, just. I very nearly throttled him.

I'd only just turned on the engine when it was:

'Pu' yer 'and on t' steering wheel!'

'Pu' yer foot on t' clutch!'

'Pu' t' gear-stick into fust gear'!'

'Hang on!' I all but shouted. 'I bloody know what I'm doing, all right? You just sit there and enjoy the view!'

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I recalled all what I had read about 'biting points' and what-have-you, took the hand brake off, and was about to get the car going, when I stalled the engine. The car gave an impotent jerk forward, then halted.

'Took thy foot off t' bloody clutch too fast, didn' yer!'

I was not pleased. Unreasonably, I wanted to master driving by the end of the day and I was not impressed to fall at the first hurdle.

Still, after a few attempts we were moving slowly along the road; albeit in first gear only. I felt it was all rather straightforward, and already I was thinking about the modifications to Ministry cars and the alterations I could make myself. What care I for the legality of such ventures?

Unfortunately, I was forced to reconsider my position on the legal side of things. I was only intending to drive to the end of the road, turn, and then go back to the house—I'm not entirely reckless. The roads around my father's house are usually deserted, apart from the odd walker, and it was then that I spied one now. I observed, in mute horror, Hermione Granger walking calmly along the side of the road as if she owned the place.

I'm sure I'm going to have to ask if she would mind taking her walks elsewhere. Britain is an _island_; there's coastline every-fucking-where. Why does she have to chose _this particular_ crumbling, barren stretch for her perambulations?

'Mek sure yer dun' hit this young lass 'ere,' my father instructed, pointlessly.

'I wasn't planning on it,' I muttered darkly.

Trust my luck for me to bump into upright, rule-abiding Granger while I was driving without a valid licence in an untaxed and uninsured car. A car that I'm not sure would pass the roadworthiness test, either. Humph.

I rather hoped she wouldn't recognise me through the windscreen. But she did. It was probably our negligible speed which drew her attention. And she bloody waved at us, then.

I frantically tried to recall how to stop, and I gently pressed the brake and then pushed in the clutch. Ha! We stopped and the engine remained running!

She appeared at my window and I unwound it reluctantly.

'Hello Severus,' she said, looking at the car with interest. 'This is, ah, unexpected.'

Too damn right.

'Father,' I said, 'this is Hermione Weasley, one of my former students. Hermione, this is my father, Tobias.' _By the way, your husband is a cheating bastard._

I stared grimly at the steering wheel while my father leaned over and smiled. 'Well, well; a pleasure, lass.'

I think the sight of a Snape smiling alarmed her a bit, for I sensed her rear back slightly.

'Thank you, Mr Snape,' she replied.

I didn't say anything then, for I was too busy panicking about whether Granger might ask for a lift somewhere. 'I'm taking my father to the doctors',' I said hurriedly. 'Aren't I, father?' I glared at him.

Thankfully, he understood and nodded in agreement.

'Right, then I shan't keep you…'

Disaster neatly averted, then; in hindsight, though, I think it unlikely she would have asked such a thing. Who on earth would willingly get into a car with _two_ Snapes in the middle of nowhere?

'Oh, are you coming to Harry's party?'

Am ashamed to write this, but I nearly said yes. I very nearly blurted out an assent. Worse still, instead of making my excuses, as I should have done, I said, 'I don't know, yet.'

Why? Why did I do it? What is wrong with a simple and unequivocal, '_no'? _Have I not already decided I won't go?

'I see,' she said. 'Well, we would be pleased to have you there.'

'Oh… right,' I said awkwardly. She nodded, said goodbye to us both, and then carried on her way.

'Drive, then,' my father commanded.

But I couldn't.

Because, I'd suddenly forgotten how to do it.

Still, momentary aberrations notwithstanding, I enjoyed driving. Think I might practice it a bit more, because when I say driving, I'm sure it's a term that may only be applied in the loosest sense to what I was actually doing.

Wilson, was right, really—can only be a useful skill to add to my repertoire. More importantly, should Miss Moran ever get it into her head to try and catch me out, I can say with completely sincerity that I have, indeed, driven a car.

Shall now set about forging a driving licence for myself by altering my father's. Just in case she wants to see official proof, of course.

This may open doors for me. Maybe I can apply to be the driver of the Knight Bus.

Like _hell_. Would have to be pretty bloody desperate to go that far.

**Monday 25th July**

**18:00 — Home.**

God.

Can't even go into _Flourish and Blotts _without getting harassed.

Was in one of the aisles, minding my own business, when none other than the bane of my life tapped me on the arm.

'All right, Snape?'

The words I always long to hear.

'Potter,' I observed dryly. 'What on earth are you doing in a bookshop?'

'I can read, you know.'

'Been upstairs to the 'adults only' section, have you? Anything to recommend?'

Potter starting spluttering with indignation, and I almost laughed out loud at his discomfort; almost, that is, until a throat cleared behind us and my humour evaporated.

Yes, it was Hermione Granger. My luck has been exceptional lately, it seems.

She shifted a huge pile of books from one arm to the other, looking at us with raised eyebrows.

I swallowed down a pulse of embarrassment and established my usual air of nonchalance, nodding a greeting at Granger. 'I thought you wouldn't be in here of your own accord, Potter.'

She smiled, while Potter only frowned. 'Anyway,' he said, looking at me earnestly, 'I haven't heard anything from you regarding my party. Are you going to come?'

I sighed at length. 'Potter, I don't think you really want or need me to be there.'

_So stop bothering me!_

'No, no; I'd really appreciate it if you'd be there.'

I studied him then. He dropped all eye contact with me, clearly afraid I was about to invade his privacy through subtle means. I've tried to avoid thinking too much about Potter's attempts to ingratiate himself with me over the past few years. However, I can't really ignore it when you consider the history we have.

I feel I have always known why he has seemingly let go of the hatred he once held for me.

'Potter, you don't have to make up for your father, or even your mother. In fact, I'd much rather that you didn't try.'

He actually looked momentarily crushed. 'It's not—' he began weakly. 'Hermione, tell him that my parents have nothing to do with me inviting him to my party.'

This was not really a conversation I wanted to get into in the middle of a shop, so I shrugged it off. 'Oh, calm down, Potter. I'll think about it.'

'We'd better move, Harry; Ron's waiting in the Leaky.'

_Oh yes, we can't keep cheating bastards waiting, can we? _

Potter suddenly looked at me. 'Do you—'

'No, Potter, I don't want to join you. Believe it or not, I do have my own life to live.'

With that, I walked off. God, he's like an old woman fawning over some poor lost child she's found in the street. I do have a life to live. Might be a shit one, but I don't need to subsist on the scraps from Potter's hand.

**Tuesday 26th July**

I think I might need help.

Am actually considering going to Potter's for his birthday. Suspect, however, that Potter has nothing to do with my decision. Must be masochist for wanting to place myself within Granger and Weasley's company.

It's a dangerous game to play, I know. I should stay out of the whole business, but the idea of having a hold over that swine Weasley is too tempting to ignore.

Ugh.

Will leave it till the last minute to decide whether to go or not.

**Sunday 31st July**

**18:00 — Home.**

Am actually going to go. Decision has been influenced by recent developments. Potter wrote to say he had a very expensive and very old bottle of scotch to crack open for the celebration. Said not many of his friends are whisky drinkers, and that it would be a shame to waste it.

I'm not going to dispute that; bunch of useless bloody butterbeer drinkers.

Someone of refinement is clearly going to have to step in.

Suspect, however, it may turn out to be a bad decision.

**2:00**

Was bad decision.

Oh dear.

Have had well and truly shit night.

Stupid man; should never have gone.

Knew I shouldn't have as soon as I saw the number of Weasleys' present. Still, there were some people there with whom I did not object to conversing, and Potter was as good as his word, putting me in charge of a 1988 _Laphroaig_ and leaving me to it.

Saw Granger. What I hadn't anticipated, on the other hand, was the flash of complete disgust I felt at the sight of Ronald 'the Wanker' Weasley hanging off her arm and smiling as vacantly as ever.

Regrettably, I chose to stifle such inconvenient emotions with a few swift gulps of my favourite amber liquid. I momentarily forgot the need for such fortification, however, when Miss Granger extricated herself to come over and talk to me. Ha!

Apparently, she was 'pleased' to see that I had chosen to come. She even _looked_ pleased, for a change; her expression was far more open than anything I had come to expect of her lately.

'Well, as you know, Potter is a good friend,' I said with a completely straight face.

She clearly appreciated the irony, for she gave a small laugh in reply. 'Really? Hmm… lucky Harry, then.'

'Quite; the luck certainly is all on _his_ side.' Feel even this may be under-stating the matter.

She smirked in amusement. 'I don't doubt it.'

At that moment, the boy himself materialised, and to my horror, he was clutching one of his brats in his arms. Have managed to avoid his offspring for years, and now I bloody well walk straight into the trap. Granger was suddenly sloping off, and then Potter was sitting down cradling this… _child _close to him.

Clearly, it was his youngest, for it was a baby. The other one, thank Merlin, was nowhere to be seen.

'You've not met Albus, before, have you?' Potter looked from me to the baby. I had the distinct impression I was being cornered into somewhere I would not like being.

'No, indeed,' I replied blandly, assessing all escape routes. There were none.

_Albus_. Jesus. _Give the kid a life sentence, why don't you?_

'We're going to have him named soon; you know, all official-like, with a ceremony and everything.'

I was about to say I would probably be busy that day, but he ploughed on talking, looking rather nervous. For one alarming moment, I thought he was going to be stupid enough to ask me to be a godparent. But it was worse than that.

'Ginny and I would like to name him 'Albus Severus Potter'.'

I stared, feeling the blood drain away from my face. 'I'm sorry?'

'This is Albus Severus.'

I looked, probably wide-eyed, at _Albus Severus_. Forget one life sentence; Potter wants to bestow _two_.

'Potter—'

'It's already been decided, so you can't say anything to change my mind. Just thought it would be appropriate to let you know.'

I sighed, shrugged helplessly, and swiftly imbibed some more whisky.

What on earth have I done for it to come to this? I just can't understand it. Something has gone terribly wrong somewhere for people to be naming children after me.

'I don't do foolish sentimentality, Potter,' I said imperiously. As soon as the words left my mouth, I sensed the irony. And so he must have, as well; he's seen some of my memories of his mother, after all.

He smiled knowingly and stood, taking the child off to see someone else; someone, I expect, actually capable of fawning.

I was contemplating my drink, thinking with a rather mixed sense of unease and uncertainty about Potter's behaviour, when there was a movement next to me.

Granger was back. God, they had it all worked out, didn't they?

'He doesn't believe he has to make up for his parent's mistakes, whatever they may be,' she said, referring to my words from the other day. 'Believe it or not, but there is no misguided sense of responsibility. Harry knows that whatever went on in the past had nothing to do with him.'

Oh, well, there was a pointed barb!

'Believe it or not, Granger,' I said, mimicking her turn of phrase and pedantic tone of voice, 'I realise Potter is not responsible for the sins of his father. However, it was convenient and—as it transpired—necessary for me to shoulder him with the blame. I'll not apologise for it.'

She nodded her head thoughtfully. 'Well, I can't deny that all the animosity didn't turn out for the best, in the end, as odd as that sounds.'

_Ha! So there._

But, no, she had to keep going.

'You can say what you like to Harry, but the point is, he'll never forget what you did. Courage and loyalty mean a lot to someone like him, and you are—'

I was beginning to curl up with embarrassment and sought to forestall her. 'Don't go any further or I'll have you done for slander.'

She burst out laughing. 'Very well, I shall not go any further, except to say that he would like to forget what went on at Hogwarts, that's all.'

Whatever reply I had planned evaporated into an exhalation when I spied Weasley lurching towards us. My expression must have been eloquent enough, for she turned to look over shoulder. Weasley came to a halt and possessively placed his hand about her waist.

'Ginny wants to see you in the kitchen,' he announced to her.

I nodded politely when she excused herself, but as they walked away, I distinctly heard Weasley say: 'Thought you might need rescuing again.'

Bloody cheating bastard.

At least, this time, I saw Granger give him a scathing look and she was clearly giving him a talking to before she walked off, leaving him looking confused.

Another snifter went down without touching the sides as I watched Weasley's ginger pate from across the room. One swift hex would have sufficed to incapacitate him nicely. It's all it would have taken. I should have done it; what care I for social etiquette? Alas, I must pay heed, for I didn't hex him.

Still, I managed to bugger things up far more grandly than that.

Weasley, I could tell, was becoming progressively more pissed as the night went on. I could tell from the way his eyes started to droop, from the ridiculous turn of his expression, and from the elevated timbre of his voice. At one point, he even crashed headlong into the pumpkin pasties.

Prick.

When he wasn't swilling down the drink or stuffing himself with drumsticks, he was draping himself over his wife, shouting: 'Dancesh wif me, Hermione!'

And when she rebuffed him, repeatedly, he slurred: 'Don't be sho boring! Ish a party!'

When she stormed off in the direction of the kitchen, looking quite purple with embarrassment, I, inexplicably, found myself following her. I now know, of course, that this was a mistake. I should have anticipated that her mood might be much deteriorated from that of the beginning of the evening.

Matters were not helped by the fact that when she spotted me standing in the doorway, all I said was: 'Tell me, for I simply cannot fathom it, after you go to the trouble of initiating a final good riddance to him, why the bloody hell you are idiotic enough to get involved a second time?'

She simply stared for a time. 'I beg your pardon?' she spat, finally.

Believe, on reflection, that it was not only Weasley who had become progressively more… _compromised—_shall we say_—_from the alcohol. Evidently, my faculties had become dangerously dulled.

'I asked why you put up with that half-wit.'

Should not have spoken so facetiously.

She scowled deeply. 'Not that my relationship with Ron is remotely _any_ of your business, but we happen to be happy—'

Should not have snorted here.

No… should have remained respectfully silent.

'Yes! Happy!' she exclaimed indignantly. 'How dare you call him a halfwit! I don't see what gives _you, _of all people_,_ leave to denigrate _him_!'

Ouch.

'He makes you look like a fool,' I hissed contemptuously. Should not have said it.

Her expression froze in a perfect picture of offence. 'Please leave. I won't listen to your nasty remarks.'

'Truth hurts, does it?' She looked really upset now, and though I felt I should like to abandon the argument, I just couldn't bring myself to drop it.

'Don't you dare stand there and judge Ron. Perhaps you should take a look at yourself first—the man who leaves his father to waste away in some God-forsaken no-man's land! The man who, actually, has never been married, so what the bloody hell does he think _he_ could possibly know about it?'

She rather took my breath away, then, but not, I fear, for any amorous reason. It was a couple of moments before I could corral my wits into action, and when I finally did, I ignored the shadow of regret that was descending over her.

'Silly, deluded girl,' I announced imperiously. 'Just a drunken kiss he shared with Miss Moran, was it? I may be lacking in most areas, but Occlumency is certainly is not one of them. I know what I saw, even if you don't.'

I spun on my heel with only one thought—to get out and Apparate away. I'd made it to the front door before I heard her voice call down the passage.

'What did you see?' she shouted querulously. 'Tell me!'

I ignored her and slammed the door behind me.

And so ended my disastrous evening, apart from the bottle of firewhisky I consumed when I arrived home. But even that has not had the desired effect; hence why I am able to write this all down now and for it to be coherent, legible and written in a straight line. If only I'd retained this much poise earlier on.

Am going to go to sleep now and forget this debacle.

**5:00 — Bed.**

Cannot sleep.

**7:00**

Have abandoned bed. Head is pounding and have run out of Headache draught. Haven't felt this shitty since waking up and discovering my neck had been torn to shreds by Nagini.

I suppose I don't really feel as bad as that. Neither was my neck in shreds, per se…

Anyway. This rambling is plainly a piss-poor attempt to forget last night's altercation with Hermione Granger.

I must say that I highly resent the accusation she levelled at me about my father. What she knows about my relationship with him isn't worth knowing about.

And, bloody Merlin, my head is _killing_ me!

**8:00**

I suppose she is right when she dismisses my right to pontificate on her relationship with Weasley. What do I know, really, about the hum-drum reality of life? Have not ever lived properly; not until the last five years or so, anyway. Have only ever had one meaningful relationship, of any sort. And something tells me it's not an experience that has set me up well for life.

So, perhaps Hermione Granger's contempt is more or less deserved.

Certainly doesn't mean I have to like it.

Fuck. Just should have kept my mouth shut. What Weasley or Granger do with themselves is nothing to do with me.

Clearly, I want everyone else to be as grim and dissatisfied as I am.

Am going to go to work now…

Oh God. This must be what despair feels like.

* * *

AN: Thank you for the reviews; they're all very much appreciated. Thanks, also, to Cave Felem for editing and generally tidying up this chapter!


	8. August

**The Diary of Nobody**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Thursday 4th August**

**13:00 — Office.**

Am still miffed about what happened at Potter's birthday, no matter how much I try to ignore it. Have avoided bumping into Potter himself by forgoing the canteen and, instead, choosing to go outside to obtain sustenance. Can't be bothered with him badgering me about my abrupt departure that night. Granger may even have told him of our argument and I've no desire to have him questioning me about that.

Miss house-elves cooking, though. Fear I may have lost weight this week through having to live on measly, pathetic sandwiches from nearby bakery.

This lack of hearty nutrition is not serving my mood well.

Humph.

Wilson is doing my head in, too. There's been some big fuck-up upstairs, which, naturally, I know nothing about. I only know there's been a fuck-up because I accidentally slipped into old Archie's mind, the other day, while he was talking to me about… Actually, I forget what he wanted. Anyway, he has enough basic skill in Occlumency to ensure the salient details are not floating about for anyone to see, but I got the gist. Regardless, he's been huffing and puffing about the place all week, so any idiot can see he's got a bee in his bonnet over something.

Maybe, if I gave a shit, I'd try and look into it more, but I don't; I'm not interested in his problems.

Could do with a stiff drink, to be honest, but I've been cutting down. I was slightly disturbed to recall how much I consumed on the night of Potter's party, and I think I might do well to recollect my vow from the beginning of the year—to drink less.

Never mind the benefits for my liver; sobriety is a far better influence on my behaviour.

Don't need a repeat of Potter's party. _Not ever. _

**Monday 8th August**

**18:00 — Home.**

Not a good day. (A cursory glance back through the pages of this bloody diary tells me nearly _all_ of my days can be filed away under this category. How depressing).

Definitely regretting letting my mouth run away with me at Potter's the other week. A small part of me hoped that Granger would forget my performance (I am prone to a certain level of delusion, I know) and put it down to me being a bitter, spiteful old man.

As it emerged, however, I left my office tonight to find the woman in question waiting for me at reception. Think I would rather have seen a gang of Dementors laying in wait for me.

Lucinda stood up, frowning. 'Mrs Weasley is here to see you, Severus. I told her you were about to go home…'

'Lucinda is right, Mrs Weasley, I am—'

Granger did not look happy. She stepped towards me, hissing, 'I am not here in a professional capacity, so I don't care whether your shift has finished or not.'

And then the bloody insupportable girl strode past me and took herself straight into my office! I hurried after her, enraged at her presumptuousness. I can just see _her_ face if _I _waltzed into _her_ chambers one day, unannounced and patently uninvited! She'd love it, I'm sure.

'Do you mind?' I spat, shutting the door behind me.

I scowled as she appraised my working environment in an obvious manner. My office is probably smaller than her robe cupboard.

She folded her arms across her chest. 'What did you mean by your little show-piece at Harry's?'

I did not like it being referred to as my "show-piece". Does she think I go about trying to end marriages at every party I go to?

'Forget it; it was nothing,' I said flatly.

'Tell me.'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Forget it.'

'_No_.'

I shrugged carelessly, perfectly prepared to stand there all night.

'_Tell me_!' she practically shouted, and I had a sudden vision of her stamping her foot like a spoiled child.

'If this is how you question those in the witness box, I'm getting a ticket for the public gallery next time.'

I got the sense that she only just managed to refrain from slapping me, then.

'By Merlin, Snape, you'd better tell me, or else I'll…'

I just looked at her, unmoved; as if I was going to be frightened of _her_.

Evidently, she realised this, and something must have given within her, for she exhaled loudly and, with it, her expression turned from anger to melancholy.

'You must tell me,' she whispered mournfully. 'I can't stand it, otherwise.'

Well, now I _was_ frightened. I never like being unnerved. I looked away and said, uncomfortably: 'It's nothing.'

She didn't even bother to respond to such a blatant lie.

'Why don't you just ask Weasley?' I sighed in defeat.

'I'm asking you.'

And after everything, after all of my deliberation over the matter, after all the disgust at Weasley, I could not bring myself to say what I had seen. But from the look on her face, I felt that any input on my part was superfluous, anyway.

'I think you already know what happened,' I said quietly. 'Probably always have.'

It was not with any satisfaction that I watched her let out a harsh sob and then flee from the room.

I stood rooted to the spot for several moments.

Can't say I've ever been in this situation before, so I don't know about the ethics of what I've done. Suppose there is a case for me being both right and wrong. Oh well, let's face it; behaving with dubious morals and motivations is what I do best.

When I eventually left my office, Lucinda was waiting for me with a look of deep disapproval. 'Did you have to make her _cry_?' she asked haughtily, before snatching up a sheaf of parchments and flouncing off down the corridor.

Spent the remainder of the evening in the Leaky, staring into a pint.

I wonder what Stanley Pumphrey would have done, in my place?

Guess I'll never know.

**Thursday 11th August**

**10:00 — Office (A.K.A shit-hole).**

I haven't heard anything relating to Granger and Weasley.

I thought the gossips would have been at it full time, had she… left him.

Maybe she's forgiven him. Don't have an awful lot of experience with forgiveness, but I'm told it does happen.

**Wednesday 17th August**

**15:00 — Home.**

Have had an extraordinary morning. All seems a bit of a blur now, even though the events in question only happened a few hours ago.

First, I was involved in a brawl, and second, am now unemployed! Don't do things by halves, do I?

It was Miss Moran's last day with me today. I was supposed to be signing her off as having completed her training, whereupon she'd go to Wilson for discussion on the next step of her career within the department, and out of my sphere for good. We were just going through her file, checking it was all in order, when my door was nigh on thrown off its hinges.

We both looked to see Ronald Weasley standing wild-eyed in the doorway. His hair was askew and his face unshaven. He was not looking at me; he was glaring at Miss Moran.

'You said you wouldn't say anything,' he hissed hoarsely.

She clutched her hands together. 'I'm sorry? I don't follow.'

Weasley stepped forward. 'Hermione; she knows…'

I also took a step forward, while Miss Moran spluttered indignantly. 'I never told her!'

Weasley's expression turned thunderous, so I cleared my throat. 'That was my doing,' I stated blandly, not afraid to admit my part.

Two pairs of eyes turned to me.

'_You_?' Weasley gasped in disbelief. 'What the fuck have _you_ got to do with it?'

I shrugged. 'I thought she ought to know what her husband is really like.'

Weasley's face twisted in anger. 'You—!'

He lurched towards me, but I held my ground.

'You—' he spat. 'Do you know what you've done?'

I may have raised my eyebrows in an expression of mild indifference…

'Do you know,' he continued angrily, 'what you have _spoiled?_'

'Wasn't me who slept with another woman, was it?'

His eyes narrowed murderously. 'Bastard! Not as if you've never made a _mistake_ before, is it, Snape? Tell us how many times you've had causeto regret your actions, eh? If you can get away with _murder,_ why should I have to atone for a one night stand?'

He punctuated his last words by swinging his fist towards me. I managed to side-step the blow, and I couldn't resist; I shoved him away, watching him clatter straight into my desk.

Was fun!

By the time he had righted himself, I had my wand out.

Miss Moran stood wringing her hands. 'Mr Snape, um, Ron, please, I think this might—'

The rest of her words were lost as Weasley unleashed a hex towards me with a loud, impotent grunt. I need not say that he missed, and that I, naturally, felt it only right to defend myself with a swift hex of my own.

He managed to block it in time, but it ricocheted off one of the filing cabinets, causing it to burst open. The sight of parchments bursting forth did not irritate me; on the contrary, I felt almost liberated. That wasn't for Weasley to know, however.

'Get the hell out of my office, you little scrote, before I get the Aurors down here.'

'Fuck you, Snape!' he shouted, lunging at me again. He caught hold of my robes and we both crashed backwards into the wall. I just managed to prevent my head from smashing onto the bricks, but I did not appreciate having to make the effort in the first place.

Before he could blink, I got one of my hands to his throat and thrust my wand into his chest. 'Read my lips, Weasley: Fuck. Off.'

His eyes widened mutinously, and it was as I was about fling him around and out into the corridor that I realised Wilson was standing there, observing all.

'Severus?' he asked, looking gob-smacked.

I reflexively loosened my grip on Weasley, but it was a mistake, for he took advantage of the moment and somehow managed to land a punch. His fist clipped my cheekbone and I swallowed down a growl of pain.

Miss Moran gasped loudly; Wilson spluttered to himself; and Weasley looked faintly horrified by what he'd done.

I glared at him, breathing heavily in anger, and raised my wand. 'You _ever_ come near me again, Weasley, and it'll be the last thing you ever do, do you understand?'

I didn't give him chance to answer. I flicked my wand and he went sailing out through the door, landing with a hard thud and a yelp on the flagstones.

'I demand to know what is going on, Snape!'

I turned to look at Wilson, feeling an irrational swell of disgust rise up inside me. 'Oh, you do, do you?' I asked roughly, touching my cheek for any sign of blood, but there was none.

'I want to see you in my office. I won't have fisticuffs in my department! It's not right, and I can't have one of my employees getting involved in such unprofessional activity! We have a reputation to maintain—'

'Wilson, I don't give a _fuck_ about your _stupid_ department!'

He looked at me, wide-eyed with shock, and even I was slightly startled. The exclamation had rather been ripped from me without my processing it. But I didn't regret it. I took in the disarray in my office and it meant nothing. Something within me must have finally broken, for I just couldn't stand the sight of it anymore.

'I don't care one whit. I'm finished here; get someone else to do this thankless job.'

I marched out of the door—lifting my robes to step over a snivelling Weasley, while stifling the urge to kick him in the guts—and headed straight for the lift. Lucinda stood by her desk, looking stricken.

'Severus?' she said uncertainly, but I ignored her.

No doubt it was reckless of me to hand in my notice in such a fashion, but it had to be done. Not one more moment could I have spent in that stupid office surrounded by stupid people like Wilson. Everyone has a breaking point, and I've obviously reached mine.

I Apparated home, and actually, I did not find myself thinking 'what on earth am I going to do now?'

All I felt was bloody relief.

Besides, I already knew there was something I should do; whether I _wanted_ to do it was not really a factor anymore. But it was an easy decision to make, now that I no longer have the Ministry as a claim on my time.

And so—I have packed some things together, because I am relocating to Yorkshire for the time being. Hardly an inspiring prospect, but despite my misgivings, it is probably the right thing to do.

It's not often I know when to say that without reservation.

But yes, Granger be damned, it's the right thing to do.

**Saturday 20th August**

**11:35 — Yorkshire.**

Haven't heard anything from the Ministry regarding my abrupt departure from my post. No Howlers have been forthcoming from Wilson.

They're probably as glad to be rid of me as I am of them. We're all winners, then.

Oh, wait. When the fuck have I ever won at anything?

I can't say moving to Yorkshire has done much for my mood, really. Yes, I no longer have to sequester myself within the bowels of that overblown institution known as the Ministry. I don't have to interact with stupid idiots day in, day out, and yes, my time is now my own, and I may do what I like with it.

But I still feel as irritated and as frustrated as ever.

For one thing, my father has been more cantankerous than usual. It seems he only opens his mouth to complain, these days. I have had to resort to taking long walks whenever the urge to hex him comes upon me. Probably know the coastline better than Granger does, now.

I've only been here three days, for crying out loud! Aargh!

By rights, my father should be in a hospital, or under some proper medical care, at this stage. But he just won't have it.

'Wan' to lock me away, does thee?' he snaps, whenever I suggest it. 'Wan' to shut me away to die! There's nowt to be done for me! I'll die in me own home; gi' me tha' much!'

What am I supposed to say to that?

Of course, on top of all this, have been thinking very much about my job situation, or rather, the lack of it.

Life of leisure will not suit me, I know, for I am already bored out of my skull.

There must be something productive I can do while I am stuck up here in this place. I'm limited, though, as there is a Muggle nurse in and out most days. Have had to make sure I leave no sign of magic about the house. Also had to abandon my robes, for the most part. She probably thinks I'm weird enough as it is, without having to see me in my Wizarding attire or, Merlin forbid, standing over a cauldron. Can just see her face if she caught me disembowelling something at the kitchen table.

Hate Muggle clothes, though. Feel bizarrely exposed in them. But… never mind the nurse; my walking about with a cravat tied about my neck probably doesn't help my father much in remembering what year he's living in, either.

On the days when I do dress in robes, my father never fails to frown deeply. 'Wha' t' 'ell are yer wearin'?' he usually asks, looking me up and down as if I've just fallen out of the sky.

Half the time, I just can't be bothered to give him an answer.

What's the point? My eternal refrain.

**Monday 22nd August**

**14:06 — Father's house in Yorkshire (A.K.A Shit-hole-on-Sea).**

Good Lord. If this carries on, I'll be wishing I was back in the bloody Ministry. And the day that comes, I may have to consider ending it all.

I took my father in a cup of tea this morning, and I'd not planned on saying much beyond the usual, but something compelled me to bring up a certain occurrence. Suppose I was rather thrown by the fact that I'd even remembered it.

'Father, it is your birthday, today,' I said, and dare I say it, a little apprehensively.

He was lying on his side, looking towards the window where the sun shone on the perpetually iron-grey sea. 'Is it?' he responded blankly.

He started coughing hard and he hauled himself up to lean against the headboard. I wordlessly passed him a glass of water. When he had got his breathing back under control, he nodded tiredly towards the television.

'Pu t' telly on, son.'

God, I hate it when he calls me "son". For several reasons, I suppose. But rather than get into the whole complex issue, I shall just say my irritation lies in the fact that if he had the temerity to give me a name like '_Severus_,' then he should at least have the grace to use it!

'Tell thy mother I'd li' chips for tea.'

I just looked at him and said: 'Fine.'

Anyway, the point to this entry is to underline my current existence. This is it. This is my life:

Sitting around all day and then cooking chips for my father.

Have clearly exchanged one monotonous hell for another.

Humph.

**Wednesday 24th August**

**17:15 — Still Yorkshire.**

Went for a walk again today.

I suppose, when the sun is shining, even this flat empty landscape gains a certain essence of charm, but nothing will ever entirely mask its austerity, its essential _grimness_ of it, in my opinion.

I walked as near to the edge of the cliffs as I dared and looked down onto the beach below. The cliffs aren't very high, and I could see quite clearly the mounds of collapsed earth and clay, where the face had given away. It must have taken, and no doubt would take again anything and everything with it: paths; roads; gardens; houses… A few paltry fences guard the most dangerous areas.

What on earth could it be about this place that my father, or even Granger, finds so enthralling?

I am curious, but even so, if I did understand, I could never come to feel the same. I can't help but instinctively shy away from the prospect of sharing any common ground with my father.

I'm aware, at some level, of the futility of that aim, however. Am not _hopelessly_ deluded.

Still, peas in a pod — we ain't.

Thank God.

**Friday 26th August**

**16:25 — Yorkshire—where else?**

There was a bit of an unexpected occurrence today.

Was sitting on the low stone wall in the garden, reading the _Practical Potioneer_, and actually enjoying some unusually clement weather, when my peace was disturbed not by a brusque shout from my father, but by the sound of approaching footsteps.

The nurse was not due until tomorrow, I knew. I considered that it might be some rambler, except, the sound suddenly ceased, as if the person had come to halt.

I closed my eyes tiredly.

Let it not be Granger, I muttered to myself. _Let it not be Granger._

It was Granger. I looked over my shoulder to see her standing there, expectantly. I did nothing except turn back to my journal, as if it were a perfectly reasonable thing to see her peering over my father's garden fence.

'Thought I might find you here,' she said, without preamble.

Suppose I was grateful her greeting hadn't consisted of blasting me off the wall and into the next county, but, still, I nevertheless felt… _irked_.

'Remarkable feat of deduction, indeed,' I grumbled, without raising my eyes. What the hell did _she _want?

I sensed her step into the garden. Has she no concept of etiquette? Or did I fall asleep and miss inviting her in?

'Harry's a bit concerned because he hasn't seen you around after, well… you know.'

'Please tell me you have not informed Potter where my father lives…' I warned.

She shook her head. 'I'm sorry about what happened in the Ministry. I couldn't believe it when Ron told us. I'm sure Mr Wilson would—'

I flew to my feet. 'I don't give a shit about the Ministry.'

'Right…' She nodded to herself. 'And, ah, well, I wanted to say I'm sorry for what I said at Grimmauld Place, too…'

Now, this interested me—it was something I'd never expected. Thought she would be filled with resentment for my interference. I shrugged my shoulders dismissively. 'Not like I didn't ask for it,' I admitted, feeling a little bit more reasonable after her apology. 'Wasn't really any of my business.'

The corner of her mouth lifted wryly. 'True,' she said, and then she breathed in deeply. 'No, you were right, though. I did need my eyes opening, and…' She trailed off and cleared her throat awkwardly.

I could confess myself to being slightly curious about what had transpired between her and her idiot of a husband, but I wouldn't admit it to _her_. Besides, as if she would have told _me_ the details!

I wondered about making some concerted eye contact… Hmm…

'There we are, then.' Excellent; I can consider myself as having done her an inestimable service. Aren't I wonderful? 'I must be getting back inside…'

Felt a bit odd talking to her; not sure why. Probably, it was getting a bit too personal for my liking, and I don't do personal.

Unless there's several units of alcohol inside me, that is.

'Very well,' she said. 'Um, actually, I was wondering if… ?'

I looked at her, but she only said: 'Never mind.'

Who can ever _not mind _when someone teases your curiosity like that?

'You were wondering, what?' I demanded curtly.

'Well, it's just that… I've taken a few of weeks off work and I'm staying in a cottage further up the coast, near Bridlington…'

'Nice,' I said blankly, when nothing further seemed to be forthcoming. Actually, I couldn't think of anything worse than staying in a cottage near Bridlington, but I knew better than to tell her that. Clearly, the girl needs to get about a bit more if _Bridlington_ is her holiday destination of choice. Christ.

'It is nice,' she affirmed after a moment, entirely oblivious to my derision, 'but, ah, it's a bit boring sometimes, on one's own…'

_Christ_! I was now confronted with the very real possibility that she might be asking for me to join her on some cliff-top jaunt, or whatever it is she does in her spare time.

Possibility became reality when she asked: 'Are you very busy?'

Busy? What a fucking joke.

'Not particularly,' I answered vaguely. 'But, I ah, can't go anywhere much as I can't leave my father for too long… So I'm always… here…'

I think my words _may_ have come out in such a way as to make her feel welcome to return here, if she wished. Not sure that is how I intended them, but…

Well, it's done, now.

'Very well, then; see you around, maybe.' She nodded and walked off back towards the road.

I went back into the house, mulling over a few things, including the fact that her wedding ring is no longer present on her left hand.

Weasley must be well and truly dust, then.

Although, on previous form, she might have it back on again within a few weeks. If that is the case, I'll wash my hands of her permanently. I've no time for wilful idiocy.

**16:50**

Suppose I am grateful she is not filled with resentment at my hastening the breakdown of her marriage. On the whole, she seemed very equable…

Unless…

Unless it's just a front. Maybe she is hatching some sinister plan to get revenge; to teach me to keep my nose out of her personal business. Hmm…

Shit. Not this again. I really can't be arsed with being paranoid right now.

If she wants to do me in… Fine. I'll not stand in her way.

**Tuesday 30th August**

**15:30 — Yorkshire…**

Well, well.

Did not really expect Granger would actually take our previous exchange seriously and turn up here again. But I was wrong; she did.

I was in the garage this time. Been thinking about getting back in my father's car and having another go at driving, but I will say I'm a little apprehensive to go it alone. And I'm not getting back in there with my father again or one of us _will_ die. Instead, I spent the morning testing out certain enchantments on hiscar. Or, rather, I suppose it's my car now, as he'll never use it again.

It is now black; have decided I don't do red cars.

I recalled Arthur Weasley's modified car, of course, but I don't necessarily require a car that will fly. I thought invisibility might be useful, though; have heard many stories about parking tickets in the Muggle newspapers. Would be handy to avoid that trouble.

I was contemplating how I might work it so that the car's shape and size could be altered at the touch of a button, when Granger appeared in the doorway, giving a brief knock on the window.

'I hope you're not doing anything that needs permission from the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office.'

I instinctively stuffed my wand away. 'Just a little cosmetic enhancement, nothing more.'

I shut the door to the car, feeling a little irritated at her interruption. I wondered if she'd dare to hand me in to the authorities?

'Do you drive?' I asked her casually, wanting to discharge some of my irritation upon her. I know she sees herself as a resident know-it-all, of course. How could I forget? Still have nightmares.

She looked at the car, and ha! I knew I would see it! A flash of consternation crossed her face and she shook her head tightly. 'No,' she said. 'Never got round to it, really.'

Let it be noted here, I will bet anything that within the next few weeks I will hear that Hermione Granger is having driving lessons!

'Pity,' I said with a pointed sigh. 'You're missing out.' And so, the seed was planted.

I walked past her, into the garden, hardly able to contain a smirk. All I hoped was that she would not ask me for a demonstration. Because then it really would all unravel and she would know I've never driven beyond third gear; or carried out any manoeuvres beyond pulling away and stopping. Oh, and stalling.

'I must say,' she began, as she followed me, 'this house has a spectacular view.'

I looked at her, appearing a little gone off, I expect. 'Yes,' I said dryly, 'and imagine how wonderful the view will be when the house finally crumbles onto the beach below.'

'You've got some time yet,' she ventured, looking between the house and the edge of the cliff. 'There are some spells you could try, as well, to halt the erosion.'

'As I think I intimated to you on a previous occasion, I don't much care what happens to this house. And I can't imagine my father will need it for any extended length of time, anyway.'

She looked a little taken aback, but I don't know why. I spoke the honest truth; she could take it or leave it.

She raised her eyebrows and looked away, as if she didn't approve, which, by now, I am beginning to take as a given. More than that, however, she had an air about her as if to say 'you just don't understand.'

I felt a bubble of contempt within me; whether for her, for me, or for this place, I do not rightly know. In any case, I put a question to her roughly:

'Why on earth do you willingly spend so much time _here_? Do you want to know what it is _I_ see when I look at this place; this, as you put it, 'God-forsaken no man's land'?'

'What do you see?' she asked calmly.

'I see destruction; I see fallibility; and I see the insignificance of us all.'

She was quiet for a moment, and then she said: 'I see those things too, but I find them oddly comforting. Some may find them disheartening and pessimistic, but I find it curiously liberating to feel insignificant and powerless.' She looked out over the horizon and her voice became bolder. 'It's what gives me the courage to say, 'My marriage has ended in divorce, _and so bloody what_!'

Well, I didn't know what to say to that, did I? There was an odd smile on her face that made me wonder if she might be a few sandwiches short of a picnic, and I've just never noticed before. I simply shrugged and shook my head in disagreement. At that moment, however, there was a call from inside the house and I was saved from having to make a riposte.

'Sev'rus?' my father shouted. 'Who are yer talking to?'

I groaned and reluctantly walked up the garden to the back door. I'd brought him downstairs earlier, at his request, to sit near the open door.

I motioned for Granger to step into the living room with me, knowing that to fob him off would only be to rile him up. 'Father, do you remember we met Mrs—'

'Aye, I bloody well remember!' he said belligerently. 'I ain't lost my marbles yet!'

A likely story.

He held out his hand and Granger stepped forward to take it.

And then…

Well… Oh God…

My father said, completely unselfconsciously: 'Lovely ta sithee again, Lily. Been a while, 'asn't it?'

I don't think I am overstating matters when I say I almost died.

I cringed so hard, I thought my heart might actually stop beating from the pain of it.

Granger turned to me helplessly, a faint look of horror on her face, but I couldn't find my voice. It was like there was an iron fist around my vocal chords and a concrete brick weighing down my tongue.

When the silence had begun to elongate well beyond the realms of comfort, she spoke up weakly. 'Er, no, Mr Snape, my, ah, name is Hermione Weas… _Granger.'_

There was a genuine look of confusion on my father's face, and he became apologetic. 'Oh, really? Dear me, I beg thy pardon, lass, I thought...'

Granger nodded and edged uneasily away, clearly unable to look at me now. My father faced me, however, and there was a preoccupied turn to his expression.

'Whatever 'appen to tha' Lily lass you used ta play with, Sev'rus, when yer were a bairn?'

_She's dead and I signed her death warrant._

It was all I could do not to spontaneously Apparate away; preferably, I might add, out of all existence. Alas, such providence was not forthcoming, so I groped uselessly for something to say. Uselessly, very much being the operative word.

Granger, however, forestalled any attempt on my part by babbling: 'Mr Snape, what, a, ah, lovely house you have. I was just saying to, um, Severus, that the view is quite spectacular. Indeed, quite breathtaking…'

'Oh, aye, lass; grew up 'ere as a lad, I did! Not in this particular house, mind, but…'

I tuned out what I knew would be a rose-tinted, half-forgotten, wondrous tale of his childhood growing up in the coastal towns of Holderness, when, in fact, the truth of the matter was a tale of poverty, hardship, and veritable squalor.

If it was so wonderful, then why did he ever leave?

If only he _had_ never left. If he hadn't, he might never have met my mother, and lo, I might never have been born.

A bit melodramatic, perhaps; but right now, I'm feeling it.

Hardly knowing what else to do, I left them to it.

As they waxed lyrical over their shared interest, I wandered off to find some quiet corner in which to write this. I heard the front door open and close at some point, so I expect Granger has gone.

Should be better prepared for dealing with moments like this. Instead, think I've become far too used to everyone knowing all, but, at the same time, everyone saying nothing.

I tell myself there is no need to tell my father what I have done with my life, beyond what is necessary. I tell myself that he didn't bother to hang around long enough to find out, so why should I do him the courtesy of being honest and forthcoming with him?

On another level, why _should_ I tell him? It would only make him more confused than he already is. Although he would, like as not, forget that the conversation ever happened.

In time.

But I am afraid that, possibly, the real truth of the matter is that even if I wanted to, I could never bring myself to articulate what I have gone through out loud. The sobering reality is, no matter how much I might resent my father for what he did in the past, inescapably, what I have done is far, far worse.

_Exponentially_ worse.

And… I would be the biggest hypocrite ever to walk the earth if I forgot it.

* * *

AN: Thanks to Cave Felem for editing this chapter and making some very good suggestions as well! Thanks for reading and reviewing; hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	9. September

**The Diary of a Nobody**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Saturday 3rd September**

**15:30 — Yorkshire.**

Met Minerva in Diagon Alley this afternoon. She likes to check on me now and again—check I haven't fallen off the face of the earth (I wish).

We met in the Leaky, where I ordered a large mixed grill and rounded it off with a selection of cauldron cakes. I was making inroads into my plate of rubbish when I noticed Minerva peer primly over her glasses at me, while picking at her own modest salad.

'I don't recall this hearty appetite of yours at Hogwarts,' she observed. 'In fact, your eating habits were distinctly frugal.'

There was something almost accusatory in her tone; felt like she was saying 'How dare you change!' She was even eyeing my plate distrustfully, as if it had managed to gain some questionable hold over me.

'You're just jealous because I don't have to watch my figure.'

She scoffed loudly in indignation.

'Besides,' I said, 'I had a kitchen staffed with elves at my fingertips in Hogwarts—food on tap. In good old Yorkshire, I have just me. No pub, shop, or restaurant for miles. This is the first square meal I've eaten in weeks.'

Her expression turned to alarm. 'Are you joking?'

I relented. 'All right; I'm not entirely incapable. I can do chips and beans, which is just as well because my father's tastes basically only run that far.'

She made a disapproving noise and shook her head. 'Really, Severus… That's no way to live.'

I struggled not to laugh. I love stringing her along with my poor-little-match-boy routine.

'I must say, I was surprised to hear you'd given up your job to look after your father.'

Now, this was intriguing. I had not realised the Ministry might have put such positive spin on my departure. But I quickly remembered they actually knew nothing of my father…

Oh God. Bet this is all Granger's doing… Bet she felt responsible for Weasley's behaviour. Gryffindor nobility at work yet again.

I merely grunted, indicating my desire not to go into matters further.

'Must be very difficult…' she murmured. 'Look, what if I lent you one of Hogwarts's elves for a couple of hours a day?'

I nearly swallowed my egg down into my lungs. 'What?'

'Do you want an elf to assist you and your father?'

I suddenly felt a little bit humbled and I shook my head negatively. 'No, thank you, Minerva. There is no need.'

The idea was a nice one, but if anything were to finish my father off once and for all, it would be coming face-to-face with a house-elf.

'Well, the offer is there if you want it.'

I nodded my thanks. Then she went and spoiled the afternoon irretrievably by saying, 'Oh, have you heard the Weasley's divorce is back on?'

'Er, yes.'

'Really? How did you know? I only read about it in the _Prophet_ today.'

Wasn't in a mood for a lecture on the right and wrongs of what I'd done, so I didn't admit to Minerva that _I'd_ discovered Weasley's adultery, told his wife about it, got into a fracas with him, and then subsequently walked out of my job.

'Guessed, didn't I?' I explained coolly. 'No one in their right mind would want to stay married to him, let's face it.'

'_Severus_,' she admonished. 'I think it's a real shame, you know. I thought they were well suited.'

I openly ignored her. Sick of hearing about the bloody Weasleys. The sooner this divorce is finished the better, in my view, and then the Wizarding world can talk about something else for a change.

'I assume you'll be wanting another job somewhere down the line. What will you do?'

I groaned inwardly, not wanting to be reminded of the current lack of direction in my life. 'Don't know yet.'

'Well, "don't know yet" is going to get you far, isn't it?'

Seemed to me a lecture was imminent, regardless.

'I'll manage,' I said flatly.

'Oh, I don't doubt it,' she declared. 'But… if not, Hagrid is thinking about taking on an assistant…'

I glared at her. She tried to keep a straight face but it was in vain. Her expression dissolved into a series of chuckles, which she stifled with her hand.

'Sorry,' she muttered, biting her lip.

I always relish being a figure of fun. I maintained a dignified silence, refusing to acknowledge her pathetic attempt at humour. She looked a little bit disappointed, in my view.

'What?' she said. 'No haughty, "I shovel shit for no one, Minerva"?'

It was a few moments before I deigned to look up from my plate. 'I'm sorry? Were you saying something?'

She shook her head in defeat, but she's right, though; I do shovel shit for no one.

Fact.

**Saturday 10th September**

**17:00 — Where do you think?**

Made a right prick of myself today.

Day started with me determined to occupy myself for as long as possible. With this aim in mind, I ventured into the garage and got into the car, thinking I would have another go at driving. Once in, discovered a problem almost immediately:

Car was not facing the right way.

Obviously, I knew there was a simple solution to this situation, except, I have an inkling it's better to master going forward first, before even attempting to go backwards.

Well, I was feeling rather indomitable this morning, so I got out Miss Moran's textbook (that I'd failed to return) and looked up reversing. Didn't seem difficult. Just had to take it slow.

I turned the engine on and studied the top of the gear stick. Could see the 'R' straight away, right where it was supposed to be. Piece of piss. I remembered all that I could from my lesson with my father—the clutch went in and I put the car into reverse. Simple. I let up the clutch slightly and took the handbrake off. Easy. Looked out of the rear window, let up the clutch a little bit more, and there it was; I was moving. No problem. Had just reached the road when I realised I was going to have to think about turning, lest I reverse right off the road and up into a hedgerow. No worries. I turned the steering wheel and…

Whoops.

Turned it too soon. I heard a crunching sound and I looked to see the front left side of the car scraping all along the wall… The surprise of it meant my foot accidentally slipped off the clutch, so I frantically pressed the brake—too hard—and the car lurched to a stop; the engine, very much, cut out.

I see now that I probably should have been checking the front window too, not just the rear one.

'Right,' I said to myself, realising I was in a bit of a pickle, what with the car positioned at a diagonal across the drive, the back end sticking out into the road, and one side mashed into the wall.

I turned the engine off and got out to inspect the damage. I moved to the front of the car and surveyed the smashed headlight and severely scratched paint. It was nothing a few flicks of a wand couldn't put right. A few swishes and flicks later, and it was like nothing had happened.

It wasn't an auspicious start, but I didn't let it put me off. I got back in the car and managed to reverse away from the wall and into the road without further mishap. Eventually, after a bit of fumbling and a few potentially alarming noises from the car, I got it going forward. I changed up into second gear, and then third, and I relaxed; I was driving!

Felt good, I must say. It was nice to look out of the window and see the landscape whiz by. Wasn't sure if I was going too fast; had no idea what the speed limit was, after all.

I cruised along for a good ten minutes, going well past the point where I had driven with my father. It was all fine until I saw another car coming towards me, and it was then I nearly had a panic attack. The road was only wide enough for one vehicle. What was I supposed to do?

Luckily for me, however, the other driver slowed and pulled into the side. Therefore, I was able to zoom on past gratefully. Maybe 'zoom' is exaggerating, but, ah, well, might not be too far from the truth, actually…

I did take this moment of indecision to heart, though, and I decided it might be best for me to head back home. Didn't want to run before I can walk and all that. Unfortunately, heeding my inner advice brought its own pang of dread—the prospect of having to turn the car around in the middle of a narrow country road.

I managed to bring the car to a stop; admittedly, a rather sudden stop, but a stop nonetheless. I'd read about three-point turns, of course, but…

Oh God.

I fucked it up entirely.

The disaster occurred when I was reversing back across the road. I used the clutch all wrong and the car lurched backwards at an alarming rate. To compound matters, the road had a bit of a dip, and…

Well…

I found myself off the road, in a grassy ditch, very much stuck.

I turned the engine off, resisting the urge to slam my head into the steering wheel. The situation did not seem irreparable—I thought I could get out and simple levitate the car out of its predicament.

But to my horror, before I could even consider carrying out this action, a Muggle police motorbike rounded the bend and headed in my direction. I hoped they would not think anything was out of the ordinary, but it was a stupid hope, of course. The bike stopped and the policeman climbed off it. I frantically looked for my wand, but it had slipped off the dashboard and onto the floor. Before I could rummage for it, there was a knock on the window.

'Are you all right, sir?'

Fuck.

'Can you get out of the car, please.'

Double fuck.

Reluctantly, I opened my door and stepped out into the undergrowth. 'Hello, er, officer. I'm fine; just had a bit of an accident, that's all.'

He nodded and surveyed the car. I saw him clock the tax disc on the windscreen. The tax disc that expired three years ago.

Triple fuck. I should have forged one.

Why the hell had I not thought to keep my wand immediately to hand? How was I going to get out of this?

'Do you have your licence on you, sir?'

Quadruple fuck.

'Er, no; I have it at home, though.'

He nodded. 'And this is your car, I take it?'

'Yes…'

He took out his notebook. 'Can I take your name, please.'

Quintuple fuck.

'Is this necessary? It was only a…'

I trailed off because I saw something that nearly made me swallow my tongue. I still can't believe my (ill) fortune. Over the copper's shoulder I could see none other than Hermione Granger strolling around the corner!

Lady Luck was really shining down on me today, wasn't she? Bitch!

'Your name, please, sir.'

'Er… Stanley,' I muttered. 'Stanley Pumphrey.' Why the hell did I say that?

I needed to resolve this mess before Granger reached us. She was the last person I needed. She'd probably _volunteer_ to clap the irons on me, stickler for the rules that she is.

I thought a name and address might be all he would require. Except, the policeman suddenly moved to his bike and took out some weird looking plastic contraption.

'I'm going to ask you to breathe into this for me, please, Mr Pumphrey.'

I just stared.

He thrust the object towards me; I had an inkling as to what it was, but…

'It's routine, sir.'

I blinked. He wanted to check if I was under the influence!

I wondered if the half-bottle I'd polished off last night would still be present in my system. And then I wondered how quickly I could dive into the car and grab my wand before the officer could react. By this time, however, Granger was now only a few feet away. I thought I was done for. I was prepared to think I just might be about to be arrested for several driving offences, when Granger, unbeknownst to the policeman, took out her wand and aimed it at his back.

It was a _Confundus_ charm. The policeman blinked rapidly and looked around.

'They went in that direction,' said Granger, pointing up the road.

'Thank you, miss.' The policeman hopped on his bike and sped off.

I… Well, I just stared. Again.

I was a little bit impressed, but mostly miffed that she had witnessed the situation in the first place. She'd saved me a good deal of grief, indeed, but actually, think I might have preferred having to deal with the police than have her be a party to my folly.

I wondered what she might say next. I had a feeling she might start eulogising on the importance of obeying Muggle rules and regulations, and so on…

But she said nothing. She looked at the car, then at me, and then at the car again, and then ducked her head behind her hand and started laughing.

Laughing at _me_.

Indignation flared within me, and I wished I could Banish her away to wherever she had come from, never mind the fact that she had just… saved me from a potentially tricky situation.

'Got into a bit of a mess, haven't we? Allow me,' she said plainly, and then she…

She…

_She actually got into the car and turned the engine on!_

Unwinding the driver's window, she said: 'Always a good idea, by the way, to put the handbrake on properly, when you get out of the car.'

I nearly bit through my tongue as she tapped the steering wheel with her wand, and then the car heaved forward, out of the ditch and back onto the road.

There's no way she could have learnt all that in the matter of days it's been since I last saw her. No; I was clearly in the presence who knew very well what they were doing.

Conclusion, therefore, was that I'd been duped. God, I _hate_ other know-it-alls! Bah!

In hindsight, at least this incident occupied my mind enough to forget any lingering embarrassment over my father's faux pas the other week. But, was it really any better to be occupied with embarrassment at my own faux pas instead? No!

'Are you getting in?' She looked at me through the open window. 'Come on, I'll show you how it's done.'

! ! !

I did not particularly want showing by _her_, but there was something I wanted to ask her. Besides, after this escapade, did not feel like driving ever again. Huffing loudly, I got into the other side of the car.

'Why did you tell me you couldn't drive?' I demanded as she set the car going. I watched her shift the gear stick about like it was second nature and I scowled.

'Because I knew you were manipulating me into feeling frustrated over the possibility _you_ could do something _I_ could not. However, you forgot that I witnessed your driving. I must say, if you really had been taking your father to the doctor's that day, at the speed you were doing, you'd probably only now be returning home.'

Sextuple fuck.

Played at my own game. This is all Miss Moran's fault; she's been a bad influence on me.

Granger chuckled to herself and I nearly reached out to strangle her. 'You must admit,' she said, smiling to herself, 'I was within my rights to have a little fun with you, after you randomly started shouting at me during Harry's party.'

I nearly flinched. There'd been nothing overtly _random_ about it… had it… ?

'I'd planned on letting it run a little further, but after seeing you about to be breathalysed by a police officer, I thought it time to step in…'

Wasn't the most damaging attempt at revenge I've ever experienced, but still, am hardly about to appreciate it am I!

'Ha, ha,' I said grimly.

'Do you even know what that road sign there means?' she suddenly asked, nodding towards a signpost up ahead. 'Know what the speed limit is for a road like this?'

'Know what I'm going to do if you carry on?'

'Shouldn't go around making people feel mediocre then, should you?'

God, she's a fine one to talk! Supercilious is her middle name!

She didn't drive very far. She brought the car to a stop on a grassy verge near a dead-end. It was a dead-end because the road beyond the 'Danger' signs had crumbled away. An inspiring sight if ever there was one.

'Right, this is as far as I am going. Don't think I'm not unaware that this car has no business being on a public highway.'

Was getting a bit annoyed by her patronising tone.

She was about to continue talking, except something caught her eye. It was my driving theory textbook. She picked it up and smiled widely.

'It's all coming out now, isn't it?'

She'd had her fun, I decided. It was time for me to bite back, and I knew just how I could, if she would only…

She did exactly as I anticipated—she opened the cover and I watched her eyes pass over the name stencilled on the flyleaf. All humour dropped from her expression like a stone and she shut the book, flinging it back onto the dashboard.

'Lending you books now, is she? How cosy.'

I couldn't have hoped for a better response! Her jaw clenched tightly and she looked determinedly out of her window.

'You know,' I said reflectively, 'I must say, marriage-wrecking notwithstanding, Miss Moran is a good worker.'

'Must you?'

I noticed her fingernails dig tightly into the steering wheel.

'A know-it-all, undoubtedly, but one that errs on the right side of insufferable, I think.'

Her knuckles were so white that I almost found myself laughing. 'Are you quite well, Miss Granger? I do believe there is smoke coming out of your ears…'

'Oh, I'm fine,' she spat out automatically.

I chuckled to myself and she ventured to look at me, slightly hurt, I thought. Maybe I shouldn't have teased her using the woman who had had an affair with her husband... Perhaps she's not as laid-back about the situation as I believed… And I don't want to give her a complex, really. She might end up like me.

'Oh, give over, Granger. I stole that book off her, but no doubt she _meant_ me to. She is a know-it-all, but eminently competitive and obnoxious with it.'

'Oh…' she said thoughtfully, and then her expression became calculating. 'Thought you'd play the same game with me, did you?'

'Get off your high horse; you were the one who turned the game on its head.'

'Yes; I did, didn't I?' she remarked with pride.

'Careful, this car is rather small—wouldn't want your head to get stuck in here.'

'That's what Deflating Draught is for,' she replied facetiously.

Got an answer for everything, hasn't she?

'Want to drive back, then?' she asked after a moment, dying, I suspect, to start laughing.

No; I certainly did not. Didn't want to make an even bigger fool of myself, so I just shook my head. Besides, think I might prefer being a mere passenger.

We said nothing on the way back to my father's house. When we returned, and the car had been parked, I felt a little disgruntled. And actually, it wasn't because I was still smarting over having to be rescued. In fact, alarmingly, my initial embarrassment had faded to the point where I felt rather easy about being in her debt. I was disgruntled, I think, because I fear I enjoyed having someone else to talk to other than my taciturn father.

Regardless, she announced that she had some 'things to do.'

I just grunted. Hardly likely to do anything else was I?

'Is your father awake?'

I looked at her, slightly thrown by the question. 'No; he's gone to the hospital for some tests.'

'I see.' She began walking back to the road. 'Tell him I stopped by, won't you?'

'_Why_?' I blurted out sharply.

'That's why I was heading this way; he invited me to come for tea, the other day.'

She smiled and walked off, while I could only gape. _What the hell_? I wondered blankly.

In what possible universe does Hermione Granger come to take afternoon tea with my… father.

My _father_!

Why?

I hauled myself into the house, feeling like someone had punched me in the guts. Whatever fragments of self-esteem I still retained were comprehensively annihilated in that moment of realisation. The realisation that Granger had not come to see me, but had come to see my crabby, self-obsessed, invalid _father_.

I…

I'm not sure there is any way back from this lowest of lows.

I'm just…

I'm actually speechless.

**Wednesday 14h September**

**10:30**

Can't stay in this house today. Can't stop thinking about how useless I am. I need to put my mind to something. No bloody way am I getting back in that car. Granger knows I'm a fraud, so what's the point now?

Furthermore, I refuse to be here if and when Granger turns up for her tea with my father. God, the thought of sitting there with _him_, and _her_, and sipping tea, makes me queasy. At least if I'm absent, I don't have to know what they talked about.

Think I shall go into town and see if any inspiration can be found there. Can't hurt.

And if there is nothing to be gained, at the very least I can replace the bottle of port I consumed last night…

Was an accident…

**13:30 — Grimsby. Yorkshire.**

Am in pub; had to have a Scotch to settle my unease.

Trip into Muggle territory has proven slightly disturbing.

I went into one of the few bookshops I could see—_Waterstones, _it was called. (Why are Muggle shops always so bright and clean? It never fails to be a culture shock.)

I was wandering around, not really looking for anything specific, when I passed a table piled up with several different titles. There was one title, in particular, which drew me over.

'_Building Self-confidence for Dummies'._

What the… ? With a large degree of sceptical interest, I picked up the book; interest, mainly, at the fact that not only had someone actually bothered to write such a ridiculous book, but someone had actually bothered to publish it, too.

I scanned the back cover and nearly threw it down when I'd finished, as if it had burned me. The horror of my discovery almost sent me fleeing from the shop; however, I managed to steel myself and, instead, I picked up the book again.

I was horrified because this book was about me; _could_ have been written precisely about _me_.

On the back, it said things like:

_'Do you have perpetually destructive thoughts?'_

Yes. I do.

_'Do you have low self-esteem?'_

Er, _yes_. I am a master in self-deprecation.

_'Do you have trouble forming new relationships?'_

Goes without saying!

I scanned the shelves to see I was in the '_Mind, Body, Spirit' _section. What the… ? Other titles were jumping out at me, such as:

'_You Can Heal Your Life_.'

'_Women Who Love Too Much_.' Eh? Where are these women? I could do with one.

'_The Little Book of Confidence._'

'_Healing Your Emotional Self: A Powerful Program to Help You Raise Your Self-esteem, Quiet Your Inner Critic, and Overcome Your Shame_.'

Oh my God. That one hit a little bit too near the mark.

There was nothing else for it; I rushed from the shop, very much determined to forget what I'd seen.

There's nothing _wrong_ with me. I don't need any kind of specialised help; and certainly not from some pedantic, patronising, pain in the arse writer. It's just Muggles and their absurd obsession with giving a name to anything and everything. That's it. Muggles and their ridiculous need to heal the world and everything in it.

Yes… Forget all about it… Don't need any of that nonsense…

**13:50**

Shit. Am still thinking about it. Should I buy one?

**13:53**

NO!

**Wednesday 15th September**

No sign of Granger returning to fulfil her tea-date with my father.

How rude.

**Friday 17th September**

**16:17 — Father's house. Withernsea. East Riding. Yorkshire. North of England. United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Europe… (How bored am I?)**

BORED.

**Tuesday 20th September**

**08:30**

Oh God. Can barely lift my head up.

Cannot find Hangover Cure and the nurse is due in half an hour. She'll be reporting me to Social Services if she sees me in this state.

I know I have some here somewhere… I… Oh. I should probably just Summon it towards me.

Where the fuck is my wand?

…

Have found it wedged down the side of my chair. Merlin!

…

Oh bugger. Have now found potion but there's hardly any left.

Well… Granger will just have to go without…

**09:30**

Well, Granger is gone; my father is arguing with the nurse; and I'm now refreshed enough to transcribe the events of the night before.

Was a weird one indeed.

There was a knock on the door at about seven o'clock. No one ever turns up on this doorstep apart from the nurse, and lately… Granger. Process of elimination suggested it must be her. What she might need with me at this time of day, however, I could not imagine.

When I opened the door, it was, indeed, her. Significantly, she stood there clutching a bottle of wine.

'Hello,' I said blankly, glad I'd thought to put a black jumper on over the old check shirt of my father's I was wearing. Hate Muggle clothes! Ugh!

'Hi,' she replied. 'Fancy a drink?'

Now, I am occasionally partial to such invitations...

I let her in, but felt rather suspicious as to her purpose in coming here. 'My father is asleep, by the way; you'll have to make do with just me.'

'Oh, that's all right,' she answered, possibly looking a little bit confused by my remark.

In any case, I knew I was in for a potentially long night when, once glasses had been poured, she swallowed hers down in one go.

'Stick another one in there, will you?' she asked, sliding her glass towards me. What was I? Her personal bloody barman?

'Something wrong?' I looked at her from my chair; she was slumped on the settee, and I wondered whether she might have consumed a few swift drinks before coming here. 'The long fight for justice proving difficult?'

She shook her head briskly. 'Oh no; only dealing with some trifling dispute over pay conditions at St. Mungo's at the moment.'

Trifling, eh? Right.

She exhaled lengthily and it turned into a loud sigh. The corner of her mouth lifted humourlessly. 'It's my birthday.'

Well, I understood perfectly, then, didn't I? Although, I was slightly surprised she had chosen this recourse; that is, getting unutterably pissed. Thought such was the preserve of the truly hopeless, and, indeed, the truly helpless; like me.

'Where's Potter? Surely he hasn't abandoned you on such a... remarkable day?'

She groaned. 'He wanted to have a party, but I told him I had to work late. Last thing I want to do is _celebrate_.'

I got to my feet and went in search of my stash of spirits. 'We're going to need stronger stuff than that horrible vinegar you brought.'

She scoffed indignantly, but her expression changed when she saw what I returned with. 'I see you're a practised hand at this sort of thing.'

'I think you'll find I wrote the book on using artificial stimulants in order to forget unwanted events.'

'Actually, I think I saw it on the shelf in _Flourish and Blott's_. It was next to Ron's '_Guide to Being a Self-centred Prick_'.'

There was so much venom in her voice that I was briefly startled. Next thing, the measure of brandy I'd poured her had disappeared completely down her throat.

'Steady on Granger,' I warned. 'I paid good money for that lot and, may I remind you, I'm currently a man of limited means.'

A little smile appeared on her face. 'Sorry. I'll stick to the vinegar, if you like?'

I shrugged. She'd probably be completely blotto within the hour, either way.

'Do you want to know what he did today?' she fumed.

Actually, I really didn't, but apparently, it was a rhetorical question.

'He turned up while I was in a meeting with a client and started begging for forgiveness! "Oh, I'm sorry, Hermione! It was a one-off! I was drunk! It didn't mean anything! She led me on!"'

She paused for breath, while I wondered what I'd done to deserve being the recipient of this tirade.

'How deluded does he think I am?' She laughed indignantly. 'What kind of man cannot take responsibility for his actions? I said to him, "Oh, Imperio'd you into bed, did she?" And do you know what, I think he actually considered going with that story! I saw it in his eyes. Any excuse to make him seem like the victim in all this. That's what gets me—that he cannot just admit he is a useless piece of shit! That he has made a fool of the both of us! I said to him, "Ron! I'm going to…"'

I must have tuned her out at this point, for I cannot remember how long this spiel went on for. It was obvious I was superfluous to the conversation, so I let my mind wander to pleasanter things. Namely, what I would have for dinner tomorrow. Can't remember what I decided, but I know that I am sick of chips. Really wish I'd taken Minerva up on her offer of a House-elf…

Eventually, my attention was drawn back to my guest when she exclaimed loudly, 'Men are pigs!'

'They're all _pigs_!' she repeated, a look of vehement disgust on her face.

I was quite offended. 'Excuse you, Granger; I may be many things, but I am not a _pig_.'

Her glass paused halfway to her lips and then she set it heavily onto the table. Her expression became aggressive and I wished I hadn't opened my mouth. 'Sorry, but a fundamental component of masculinity is, unfortunately, the nature of a pig_. _Yes; a _pig_!'

'Really?' I said derisively and she immediately became defensive.

'Yes! Tell me, what happened with that Lucinda piece you were seeing? I bet I know.'

I shrugged nonchalantly. 'Well… I loved her and I left her, didn't I?'

I only said it to mock her, to see her get all self-righteous and then be able to shoot her down, except, at my words, her ire seemed to drain away. Next thing, she was smiling and nodding to herself.

'Fair enough,' she said, laughing a little. 'Not all men are entirely pig-related.'

_What the_… ? My mouth nearly fell open in outrage. She didn't believe me! She clearly thought my capacity for rakish behaviour was nil!

'Why do you think I don't speak the truth?' I demanded, though I feel she did not entirely register my pique through her drunken haze.

'Well, now that I think on it, I just… I just can't see it…' She shook her head distantly. 'Nope, sorry.'

Bloody hellfire! That was my ego well and truly trampled over, wasn't it! My _inner critic _was well and truly riled now! A few months ago she was acting like I was some uncontrollable pervert, and now I'm a paragon of virtue! I can't keep up with her.

'But that's good, you know,' she said brightly. 'And, really, Harry isn't a pig, either.'

Oh my God.

'_He_ would never behave like a dickhead.'

My life is complete. Am on par with Harry bloody Potter. There's nothing else for it; I want to die.

I changed tack in a feeble attempt to block out the despair. 'I thought you weren't that bothered by all this? What happened to "_so bloody what_"?'

She didn't speak for a moment, but then she threw her head back against the cushions and sighed. 'It's not… I don't really miss _him_ all that much, to be honest. I knew the marriage was over a long time ago, but still, I have my pride.' She frowned mournfully. 'I've seen that Moran cow, haven't I? She's one of those women men take notice of. She's got everything; brains, looks, smooth shiny hair…'

'Legs…'

I had intended for my addition to be very much silently put, but I had a horrible feeling I might have said it out loud. When I ventured a glance at her and saw the frozen look on her face, I knew that I had.

'Yes,' she said crisply, looking into her glass; rather murderously, I thought. And I'm sure I heard her mutter '_pig_' under her breath. Secretly, I felt a little bit pleased by it.

'Doesn't mean very much, though, in the end,' I mumbled, trying to rescue the situation. Awfully strange it was, seeing her without her usual air of self-confidence and calm exterior.

'Yeah; s' pose.' She leant forward and put her glass onto the table.

'Don't be so insufferably glum,' I admonished. 'It could be a lot worse; you could be _me_, for instance.'

'Oh dear, we're feeling rather sorry for ourselves, aren't we? We need to go out and hug a tree, or something.'

'_I'm sorry_?' Hug a tree? I wondered if the alcohol had melted her brain.

'Yes, people do that to make themselves feel better… don't they? Or have I made it up?'

The day I hug a tree is the day I relinquish all grip on sanity. 'Think it would take more than an encounter with _a tree…_'

'A forest, then?'

Upon which, she proceeded to fall about laughing hilariously at herself. I only watched dumbly as she clutched her stomach and wiped at her eyes. Evidently, she noticed my complete lack of amusement for she endeavoured to recover herself. She didn't manage it. One look at me sent her into hysterics again.

Was a bit of a relief, actually, when she collapsed against the cushions and fell asleep. I like having a drinking partner as much as the next person, but I'm making a resolve here to never indulge in a drinking session with _her_ again.

Merlin; it's just not worth it.

Anyway, I came downstairs this morning to find her clutching her head and mumbling about having to be in the Wizengamot in twenty minutes.

Personally, I'm shocked by such behaviour. Fancy, Hermione Granger, defender of justice, being half-cut in the courtroom…

Whatever next?

**Thursday 22nd September**

**09:15**

Received an Owl from Granger this morning. My father nearly had a heart attack when the bird started tapping on the window—my post usually goes to my own abode.

'All this bloody magic,' he muttered, 'and yer av ta use birds ta deliver thy letters; ruddy daft, it is.'

'Who is i' from?' he demanded, watching me take a parcel and a note from the owl.

'It's from your girlfriend,' I announced.

'Eh?'

'Miss Granger has sent me a bottle of cognac.'

The note said, 'Sorry for drinking you out of house and home.'

'Are yer goin' to open it?' asked my father hopefully.

I told him 'no'. For some reason, have not felt in a drinking mood; clearly, I must be sickening for something.

I wonder why she didn't bring this bottle in person? But why am I wondering that? What difference does it make? Do I, God forbid, enjoy the idea of her _dropping by_?

Oh no… That way lies only silliness. Clearly, I need to get out a bit more, because… well…

No, I won't think on it.

There; it's gone from my mind. Shall now go and do something… Perhaps I'll go and see if there's anything on the telly.

Hate watching telly.

**Monday 26th September**

**13:45**

Boredom:

Ennui; tedium; monotony; repetition; languor; dullness; hum-drum; discontent; apathy; weariness…

I wonder how many other synonyms I can think of?

**14:00**

Lassitude… Yes, that can go on the list. So can inertia; indifference; lethargy; inactivity…

I'm good at this.

Merlin… How _sad_ is this entry?

**Thursday 29th September**

Can't believe this.

Have just received a further communication from Granger, in which she'd enclosed a missive from bloody _Potter_!

How dare she!

Potter's note said:

_Dear Snape,_

_I'm not offended you won't let Hermione tell me where you are. I know it's nothing personal._

Was this not the most deluded statement ever to be penned?

_Just wanted to say that you should pop round to Grimmauld Place one day, when you have a spare moment. I'd say come for dinner, but… I'll spare you that; unless I can get Hermione to cook, of course. _

_Also, and I expect you won't want to come, but Albus's naming ceremony is taking place on the 12th of October. If you don't want to attend the actual ceremony, you're welcome to come to the little party we've organised afterwards._

_Regards,_

_H. Potter_

My God. Is this for real? Have I actually received this off Potter?

Does he seriously expect _me_ to turn up on his doorstep, casually, for no other reason than to interact with him?

And what is it with him and _parties_?

Does he realise how desperate he sounds? If he were not married with kids, I'd suspect some horribly twisted attraction on his part. Mind, monogamy is nothing to go on these days, is it? Might have to watch my back.

In all seriousness, though, Potter's solicitousness is quite disturbing, and I don't really know what to say, except that… his father must be spinning in his grave.

Hmm… Actually, that is a thought to warm the cockles of the heart…

Still, letter is going straight in the bin, of course.

Merlin. Like hell am I going to bear witness to Potter's tomfooled and, frankly, _disgraceful _decision to name his son after me!

Some people just shouldn't be allowed to have children, in my opinion.

* * *

AN: The books Severus found are real ones; not my creations.

Thanks to Cave Felem for her help with this chapter, and thank you for reading.


	10. October

**The Diary of a Nobody**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Monday 3rd October**

**13:54 — Yorkshire.**

Have had a rather interesting thought…

I expect Weasley, as the uncle to Potter's child, shall be attending this ridiculously superfluous naming ceremony.

(I realise it's unfortunate I'm actually wasting my thoughts on this occasion.)

Hmm…

I just… I just have a rather overwhelming urge to see Weasley's face upon my turning up at Grimmauld Place. Think it would be an enjoyable picture, indeed.

But still, pissing Weasley off is probably not reason enough for me to put myself through the tedium that is any event Potter throws.

Would be an excuse to get out of the house, though.

Shows how desperate I am.

However, I cannot leave my father unattended for too long, so this pondering is all redundant really.

**Thursday 6th October**

**14:12**

Granger still hasn't been back here since the incident of her birthday. Goes from one extreme to the other, doesn't it? One minute I can't take a step out of the front door without bumping into her, and the next, nothing.

Am uncomfortably aware this sounds like I'm complaining.

I hasten to add that this says less about Granger than it does about my complete and utter boredom here in Yorkshire. There is literally no one to talk to. Can't even have a stilted, awkward and vague conversation with my father these days.

His condition seems to be noticeably deteriorating. He's been in his own little world for the majority of the time recently; one where I, clearly, have no place, for he looks right through me usually.

The nurse suggested I could consider hospitalising him. In his current state, he is unlikely to even notice the change, she said. I wonder if she thinks I can't cope? That I am out of my depth…?

Regardless, I can see the point of her suggestion, and I thought about it, but there is nothing more they can do for him in hospital that can't be done here. And… I feel I should respect his wishes, even if he can't remember ever making them.

I can manage. I've come this far, and I'm not the type to take the easy option.

Have been able to be quite productive, however, during the last few days. While my father is in this state of confusion, he is more willing to drink the potions I make. He, of course, has no idea they are potions; I just tell him it's his medicine. I could tell him I'm his doctor and he wouldn't know any different.

Have had to be careful regarding the nurse, of course; but she never lingers once she has seen to my father, so I think I shall be all right. As long as she never asks to go into the kitchen, anyway.

So, have spent the last few days brewing supplies of medicinal potions, including Dreamless Sleep. Always handy. Also brewed a cross between a wit-sharpening potion and a clarity potion.

I developed the recipe some time ago, thinking that it might aid my father better during his 'episodes' than the Muggle medicine, but, of course, if it didn't come in tablet-form, in a labelled plastic bottle, he didn't want to know.

Wanted to know what was in it, he did, and as soon as the words 'armadillo bile' passed my lips, he told me to get lost.

Like any of the incomprehensible crap they put in Muggle drugs is any more prepossessing than armadillo bile!

Anyway, I wondered whether I should try again. Wouldn't cure him, of course, but it might help to clear his mind for a time.

And then I thought—would clarity be any better for him? Maybe the fog of the illness is easier for him to bear than anything else. Maybe it's a relief not to remember.

Oh, what do I know, really…?

But sometimes… I feel like I might like to forget…

**Monday 10th October**

**11:30 — _Hospital_.**

My father has _had_ to be admitted into hospital.

The nurse reckons he has developed an infection and so she has suggested he spend a few days under the care of the doctors. I can't deny the prospect of a few days off doesn't fill me with a certain sense of relief.

He did not go quietly, however.

'I don' bloody wan' ta go ta 'ospital!' he shouted. 'If I go in there, I'll never come back out!'

So much for him not being aware of the change, then.

The nurse had to resort to sweet-talking him. I'm glad one of us was able, because there was fat fucking chance of _me_ charming him into co-operation.

'Are yer comin' wi' us, Philip?'

So I was Philip, again.

Uncle Phil… I don't have many memories of Philip Snape, except a general impression that he was a rather questionable character (can be said of many Snapes, mind). In any case, I'm not sure I want to know precisely why I should remind my father of his brother. Hope it's just physical resemblance.

The prospect of setting foot into a Muggle hospital was not an enticing one, but… I could hardly leave him to it.

And so… into the ambulance I got…

An experience, I might add, I shall endeavour never to repeat.

**Tuesday 11th October**

Shall be going to visit my father shortly.

Visit will consist of me sitting silently next to his bed, while he lies there, probably grumbling to himself.

Thrilling.

They're going to keep him in for a few days, which means, in theory, I could go to Potter's tomorrow afternoon, after all…

Ugh. If I didn't know better, I'd say my father has done this on purpose, just to torment me.

Just man up, Snape. Just _admit_ that a tiny, barely credible part of you would prefer to go to Potter's than sit alone twiddling your thumbs.

There…. Have admitted it and the world has not imploded…

Shame.

**Wednesday 12th October**

**18:30 — Hospital.**

So I went to Potter's.

And it was no shifty, awkward entrance I made. Oh no. I walked in like I owned the place.

There was a reason for my performance, of course; a ginger reason. Once in, I noticed several things and the main point of interest was, above all, Weasley's staggered expression when he caught my eye.

Loved it. A job well done, I thought.

He wasn't the only one to look at me. There were a few covert glances, in fact. I think Potter must have kept the decision as to his son's middle name rather quiet. Wish I'd gone to the actual ceremony now, to collate how many gasps there were.

Ha! Well, despite my unwavering disapproval of Potter's choice, I must say, I do enjoy putting people off-kilter.

Minerva marched over to me straight away, cutting directly to the heart of the matter. 'Severus, why did you never say Harry would be naming his _son_ after you!'

'You never said I had to inform you of ever minor detail pertaining to my good self.'

'It's hardly minor, Severus! Harry gave this flowery speech at the ceremony and spoke like you and he are bosom buddies. You could have knocked me down with a feather, I can tell you!'

Lord; a _speech_? Thank fuck I didn't go to the ceremony!

And_ bosom buddies_? I've possibly never been more offended in my life.

'I'll thank you not to defame my character by implying what you just did, Minerva,' I said smoothly.

She blew out a breath. '_Albus Severus_…' she said quietly to herself, shaking her head in wonder. 'Whatever next?'

'Sickening, isn't it?'

Potter really hasn't considered the connotations of what he has created. A hybrid of me and Dumbledore, even in name only, is, frankly, something to be avoided at all costs, I would think.

'Tell me, how was Weasley during the event?'

'Ronald?' she clarified. 'Well… now that I think on it, he looked a bit… peaky_, _actually. Why?'

I smiled inwardly. 'Oh, no reason.'

Weasley must be _loving_ having a nephew named after the man who dropped him headfirst into the shit! I'm actually considering commending Potter for it!

Hmm… that would be rather hasty…

Anyway, it was not Weasley but Granger I was interested in seeing next. I felt there was a bone I needed to pick with her. I scanned the room and found her sitting with Albus… the child in question… in her arms. I watched her determinedly until she deigned to glance up from the infant. When she saw me, however, to my astonishment, she blushed violently and started to fidget.

Very odd behaviour from her, I thought.

I began towards her, and, evidently, she guessed my intentions for she dumped the child back with its mother and stood. She was not quick enough, however.

'Granger,' I said sharply, and she tried to look like she hadn't been mapping out escape routes. 'My father has been sitting at his window every day, anticipating your return.'

'What?' she exclaimed, pale with dismay. 'Really?'

I nodded solemnly.

'Oh dear; I'm very sorry. I've just been so… very busy… Um… work has been hectic and…'

I've seen first-year Hufflepuffs tell better tales. I raised my eyebrows sceptically.

'Fine,' she admitted, lowering her voice. 'Look, I was a bit embarrassed after turning up on your doorstep that night and getting pissed.'

The only thing that went through my mind was, 'Oh.' Hadn't expected that line of defence.

'I can't remember _half_ the things I said…'

'All right for some, then,' I muttered dryly and her cheeks darkened again.

'Oh God, I can't stop cringing when I think about it,' she blurted, putting a hand over her eyes.

I considered that she didn't really have a lot to be embarrassed for, so the fact that she obviously was left me feeling oddly… pleased… Not sure if that is the precise word I am looking for… but it'll do.

More than that, I rather enjoyed the fact that I had bore witness to her moment of weakness. Not for any callous reason on my part; no, simply that of all the places she could have gone…

Am unsure whether I have to include my father in that equation… Or even the house, for that matter—the happenstance of it being on her favourite walk. Oh God, am I now relegated to third on the list…?

'We've all done things we wouldn't normally do without a push from other quarters. In your case, the bottle. Besides, maybe we're both equal on the embarrassment front, now…?'

I was being generous; magnanimous, even, but no, she had to take advantage of me, didn't she!

Her face suddenly brightened and she laughed loudly. 'You mean that stunt you pulled with the car?'

'If you've told anyone…'

'By the way, I forgot to ask before, but just who is _Stanley Pumphrey_?'

She's a cow.

She laughed again, but worryingly, I wasn't all that bothered. Especially as I could see Weasley watching us. If anything, it only spurred me to prolong her amusement.

'Met him whilst out hugging trees, didn't I.'

Her chuckles became groans. 'I remember mentioning trees, because I had a bit of a nightmare that night—I dreamt I tried to hug the Whomping Willow!'

I snorted. 'Maybe that's all it needs—a bit of affection.'

Suddenly—inexplicably, _ridiculously_—I wished I were a tree. Think I might be desperate, after all. Before I could dwell on the point, or attempt to decipher the meaning behind her suddenly wistful expression, Weasley was standing next to us.

'Are you laughing at me?' he demanded curtly.

'So what if we are?' I spat immediately.

'Get lost, Snape. What are you even doing here? Harry only named Albus after you because he feels sorry for you.'

'Ron!' Granger snapped.

'What?' he asked flippantly.

'Severus and I were having a private conversation, actually; nothing whatsoever to do with _you_, all right?'

Weasley glared at the both of us before stalking off angrily, but, of course, the damage had been done. Granger was no longer in any mood for laughing. Her expression was pinched and strained, and eventually, she muttered that she needed to do something. She disappeared, leaving me standing there, frustrated and annoyed.

I became more so when Potter cornered me. 'What have you been doing with yourself lately, then?'

'Nothing,' I answered shortly.

'How's your—'

'Excuse me.'

I walked off, out of the room and into the passage, following a certain ginger abomination. He was heading towards the kitchen—to stuff his gormless face, probably—but he stopped mid-step when he heard my tread.

The split second it took for him to turn around was all the time I had in which to wonder at what I was playing at.

'You can stand and glare at me all you want, Snape; I'm not afraid of you.'

He turned to go and I stepped forward. 'You should be.'

'Why?'

'Why don't you just leave Granger alone, eh? She obviously cannot stand you any longer.'

'It's got fuck all to do with you. So why don't you do us all a favour and _do one_?'

Whatever reply I had planned was curtailed by an interruption from another quarter.

'Is, ah…everything all right?' This was Potter's wife.

Wasn't sure whether to be grateful or to resent her timing. 'Perfectly, Mrs Potter.' I moved past her, back into the party, preparing to think I may have made a mistake in talking to Weasley in such a way. What if he tells Granger what I said?

What if…

Well, I'm allowed to be concerned, aren't I? After all, Weasley did punch me. I shall simply say I fear he may have become a little unhinged.

But if… _If_ this is an excuse, then what is my true reason for approaching him?

Eek. Will not think about it.

I just can't help it if the sight of him fills me with contempt. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

I didn't stay much longer at Potter's. I beat a hasty retreat when Potter's eldest, along with Lupin's child and some other Weasley spawn came barrelling into the room, chasing each other with toy broomsticks and wands. And when Potter joined in, showing as much, if not more, enthusiasm than the children, I knew it was time for me to depart.

Lest the inappropriately snide comment I longed to make pass my lips.

I can be polite and considerate when I want to be; it's just rare that I ever do.

**Saturday 15th October**

**15:09 **

My father returned home yesterday, but I can't say the hospital stay has done much for him. Have had to place wards on his bedroom. Naturally, he knows nothing whatsoever about it.

Earlier today, a loud crashing noise from above roused me from my reading. I rushed up the stairs, muttering to myself: 'What have you done now?'

I went silent when I saw him lying on the landing, clearly having fallen.

'What are you doing out of bed?' I asked roughly. 'You should have shouted if you needed anything.'

I reached down and clasped his arm, but he immediately wrenched himself free with a strength that surprised me.

'Ger off,' he snarled. 'I can manage, all righ'? There's nowt wrong wi' me!'

I let him struggle for a moment before putting my hands under his arms and hauling upwards. On his feet, he lurched away from me.

'I don' need any 'elp!'

He glared at me, and I could tell he had no idea who I was. Wasn't even Philip now. I clenched my jaw and followed him into his bedroom. He slumped onto the bed, breathing heavily. 'Go away!' he shouted, but the words that followed were such a messy jumble that I was momentarily taken aback. For his own part, he seemed unaware that he was talking nonsense and allowed himself to continue getting riled up.

I tamped down the impatience I am apt to feel and sought, no doubt inadequately, to calm the situation. 'Father… _Tobias_, why don't you—'

To my astonishment, he suddenly grabbed the clock off his bedside table and threw it towards me. I ducked and it smashed against the wall. Instinctively, I'd snatched out my wand, and his eyes widened fearfully in response to seeing it.

I was frozen for a time, furiously trying to calm _myself_ down, then.

He seemed to give in first. He lay down quietly, with his back to me. When nothing further was forthcoming, I turned and left, casting the spells that would let me know if he managed to cross the threshold of his bedroom unaided again.

I returned downstairs, but forgot my reading. My mind was far too tumultuous to concentrate on anything properly.

I have a ton of booklets and leaflets that the nurse gave me, several years ago now, detailing the ins and outs of my father's condition. I have read through them, of course, and know that these incidents are to be expected, but…

Oh, I don't know…

It's only going to get worse… Maybe I should prepare to admit I'm out of my depth, after all.

But what then?

**Monday 17th October**

I ventured into Diagon Alley this morning, taking advantage of the nurse being with my father. Since his behaviour has become even more erratic, it would be highly irresponsible for me to leave him alone for _any_ length of time.

So I Apparated away this morning, hoping that my slowly dwindling sanity might recuperate by a change of scene, however brief.

I went to Gringott's to change some money and to check on my resources. My sanity is not the only thing dwindling, it seems. Yet another problem to add to an ever bloody growing list.

I was heading to the Apothecary when I saw the front page of the _Daily Prophet _on a news stand.

The Weasleys' divorce is now finalised, then. Well, it's one bright spot in an otherwise shitty few weeks to imagine Weasley crying into his beer over the state of his life. I like to think that is how it is, anyway. And judging from his previous behaviour, I would think I'm not too wide of the mark.

As for Granger, well… I'm not sure what she might be doing. Do not like to think _she_ might be crying into her beer. Forced myself to put any further thought of her from my mind, though. Have enough to preoccupy me as it is.

I returned to Withernsea to find the nurse waiting for me

'I think we should talk, Mr Snape,' she said plainly.

A hundred and one reasons as to what she might want to discuss passed through my mind, and each one of them was entirely ridiculous and unreasonable. Was I failing to adequately provide for my father? Did she want to accuse me of something? Neglect?

'About what?' I asked sharply.

Her expression became soft and gentle. 'About you. How are you coping? The stress of—'

'I assure you, I am fine,' I said hurriedly.

_Dear lord!_

Needless to say, I felt highly uncomfortable; not least because I could see, behind her, that I'd left _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi _on the arm of my chair. I'm well aware what connotations 'magical' fungi have in the Muggle world. My defence, should I need one, would just have to be that I'm really, _very_ stressed…

'I can arrange for you to talk to someone who is experienced in—'

'No, no!' Her suggestion made me quail inwardly with alarm. 'Honestly, there is no need.'

I tried to look reassuring, but my face is highly unused to that expression….

'Well, you know where to find me, if you change your mind.'

I nodded and let her out of the house.

Would rather have a nervous breakdown than go to some touchy-feely Muggle and talk about my _feelings_.

A close shave, indeed.

**17:15**

I wonder if the nurse thinks I'm weird?

Don't know why I'm wondering about her perception of me, all of a sudden… It's not often that I bother myself with the impression I make on others.

Hmm…

**Friday 21st October**

Oh my God.

Opened the paper today to find a two-page spread on 'Finding Your Self Worth'.

Immediately, I flicked onwards, wanting to rise above such rubbish… except, my curiosity got the better of me. I flicked back, and I read. I read it all. I was certain it was a load of tosh when I finished, mind.

According to this article, one is encouraged to 'daydream' about their goals or desires. What?

To improve self-esteem, I am… _a person_ is supposed to determine what it is they like about themselves. Try standing in front of a mirror, it said, _and say out loud 'I like myself.'_

Oh, it's that easy is it? Problem bloody solved because you stand in front of bloody mirror and say you like yourself. Who knew narcissism was the way to get you through all the crap?

Apparently, it's all about _'finding your true identity'. _

What a joke.

Make a list about what I like about myself? Merlin.

I'll stick with my 'destructive' thoughts, thanks.

**Tuesday 25th October**

**20:00 — Yorkshire. About to drown my sorrows… **

Nightmare of a day.

The first, well, three-quarters of it were unremarkable. Mid-evening, however, Granger turned up on my doorstep. From her attire, I could tell that she must have come straight from work.

'I was in the area and thought I'd drop by, if that's all right? I've been trying to ditch reporters all day…'

At this point, my mood had still been moderately equable, so I just nodded.

'I'm not sure what they want to see, really. Celebration? Tears? Regret? Who knows?'

_Regret_? Surely not?

'Do you want a drink?' I picked up the bottle of fire whisky I already had on the go.

She looked indecisive, before agreeing to a 'small one'. I watched her cheeks flush at the first sip and then I studied her further. For some reason, I always take note of her work robes. I think it's because they signify to me that she has done well for herself. Regardless of the state of her personal life, she has done well for herself.

I ponder whether there will ever come a time when I can say the same for myself (I'm not going to hold my breath).

In this moment of quiet, I sensed from her expression that she could hear the sound of talking emanating from upstairs. Seemed she was too polite to enquire as to this odd occurrence, although I could tell she wanted to.

'He's talking to my mother,' I explained bluntly, maybe wanting to make her uncomfortable.

A flash of confusion passed over her face. 'Oh? I didn't—'

'My mother died in the eighties.'

Her face fell. '_Oh_; I see… I'm sorry…'

I nodded stiffly, not particularly enjoying the pity on her face. Goes to show how eager I was to leave this topic, for my next words were: 'How's Potter?'

Even she looked surprised; not half as surprised as I was, though, I bet. In my defence, it was the only thing I could think of at such short notice.

'Fine… thank you. I'll tell him you were asking after him.'

Oh Merlin.

She smirked to herself.

I frowned distastefully. 'Must you? He might get the wrong impression.'

'You know, it's not Harry's fault that he's always looked for parental figures in his life,' she explained airily.

I stared at her, horrified by the insinuation she had made. 'Are you joking?'

The humour in her expression faded and she shook her head minutely. 'Actually, no.' She smiled apologetically.

I have possibly never been more disturbed in my life, and let's face it, that is saying something, indeed. My expression must have more than communicated my unease at this pronouncement, because she also looked a little bit awkward; as if she wished she hadn't said anything.

She's not the only one!

I looked at my watch. 'Excuse me…' I muttered vaguely, 'I need to see if my father wants _Emmerdale_ on.'

She let out a laugh and I looked sharply at her.

'Sorry,' she said contritely. 'That's just… possibly the most incongruous thing I've ever heard you say.'

Reasonable enough, I suppose.

I escaped up the stairs, muttering to myself angrily about fucking parental figures.

And worse; fucking _father_ _figures_.

Why did she have to tell me this? It's not funny as a joke, and it's certainly not funny as the truth! Is it really how Potter sees me? Well, God, he's really scraping the bottom of the barrel now, isn't he?

It can't be right, because it's just too wrong. Potter clearly needs some psychiatric help, I think.

I paused for breath at the doorway to my father's room. Of course, he has long since stopped following his television programmes, so I went in and simply stalked over to the window. Anything to give me time to regain my equilibrium.

After a moment, I said: 'Do you want anything, father?'

He didn't reply and I looked at him. He was quiet now and simply staring into nothingness. Nothing particularly new there. His eyes moved to me in time and he then began to mutter to himself, unintelligibly, and I resisted the urge to sigh loudly. I thought he might get into one of his delusions, but after several moments, his expression cleared a tad.

'Pass me the… um… the…'

His mouth opened and closed several times but nothing came out. He looked at me wildly, before pointing to the newspaper at the end of his bed. Automatically, I picked it up and handed it to him, feeling distinctly unsettled.

He took the paper, stared at it, but with a whimper of frustration, flung it away from him and collapsed onto his pillow. I watched him for a time, my heart beginning to beat hard when I realised his shoulders were shaking and that he was… crying.

Proper sobs.

I suddenly felt very cold inside, and, in all honesty, I hardly knew what to do with myself, let alone what to do with him. I know very well what I should have done. But I just do not have it within me to provide that sort of… comfort… for him. Instead, I fled downstairs.

Granger was on her feet when I appeared. 'Is everything all right?' she asked, wide-eyed, no doubt, at the sound of my father's distress.

I couldn't say anything. All I wanted to do was get out of there. I walked out into the garden, wishing I could carry on walking and never stop, but I paused by the wall and breathed in a lungful of fresh air.

I've never seen him like that before. How am I supposed to deal with it?

'Se—'

'I don't want to hear it; I think you should go home.'

Why did she have to be here when this happened? Why does she have to bear witness to my every moment of deficiency?

She did not heed my words. With a rising sense of anger, I heard her tread going up the stairs. I pushed away from the wall, fully prepared to tear after her and demand to know what she thought she was doing—why she thought she should interfere. But for all my desire to get her away from my father, when I reached the door, I halted in my tracks.

I couldn't face it. Not at that moment, anyway. It was far easier to let her deal with it.

A few moments later, she was back, asking me if he would take a Calming Draught. I retrieved a phial from the kitchen and forced myself to join her upstairs, the prospect of having something practical to do easing my disquiet slightly.

I watched her speak to him brightly, in a way that I, of course, cannot. As to the effect it had on my father, well, he was no more responsive, but maybe that isn't the point.

'Leave me be,' he said eventually.

When we returned back downstairs, I could barely bring myself to look at Granger. She, naturally, could not let me pretend the last half an hour hadn't happened, as I'd hoped to do.

'There's no shame in it,' she said cautiously, after a moment. 'I'd be more surprised if you were not affected by it all.'

Instinctively, I wanted to refute any notion that I was _affected_ by anything, but I wouldn't have been fooling anyone. And I suppose I was relieved she did not think me entirely callous, but I was vexed, all the same, over the possibility she might have been unduly charitable about my behaviour.

As I am sure there is probably more I can do—more effort I could make, with regard to my father.

'It's a lot for one person to take on…' she continued slowly. 'It's commendable—'

I interrupted her with a groan, throwing myself into my chair and rubbing a hand over my brow. I can't stand any sort of praise; certainly not when it's quiet and sincere and implies I'm some altruistic soul.

When, really, it's just guilt and selfishness driving me onwards.

'_I_ think it's commendable,' she pressed in a firm tone.

I clenched my fist, feeling like I was about to spontaneously combust from a potent mixture of embarrassment, shame, and unfortunately, pleasure.

'I should probably go; will you be all right?'

Surprising how few times I've actually been asked that question before.

'Perfectly.'

She smiled a little pensively.

Oh, I was _fine_, except for the bloody sudden inconvenient impulse I had to _do_ something upon the moment her departure. To do what precisely, I just don't know. Barricade the door to prevent her exit? Stun her? Hex her? Shout at her? Blurt out a declaration?

Talk about a moment of madness!

It was a relief when the door finally closed and the sound of her Disapparation could be heard. A relief because I had managed to reinforce my self control and keep my gob resolutely shut until I was alone again.

I mean, _really_; can things get any worse?

_Can they_?

Unfortunately, in my experience… then, yes; probably…

* * *

AN: Thanks for reading! Thanks to Cave Felem too!


	11. November

**The Diary of a Nobody**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Tuesday 1st November**

**17:00 — Withernsea. **

My father passed away this morning.

Or maybe it was last night—don't really know.

In any case, I went into his bedroom this morning, as I always do, and… he simply wasn't breathing. As soon as I saw him, I knew he had gone.

It's not like I've never expected this occurrence. Many a time, especially during his very bad days, I wondered what I might find on entering his bedroom. But… I don't suppose I really expected it to happen for some time yet. It's a shock, then—as much as I can ever be shocked anymore.

The initial daze is beginning to pass, now, but I'm not really sure what it is I am left with. Is it nothing? In every possible sense of the word?

There has been an odd, pervading sense of calm as I have gone through the motions. The doctor and the undertakers have been. I only nodded when they offered their condolences. What is there to say?

They must have thought me a cold fish, indeed, but well, it's none of their business.

He's gone, then; just like that. One minute he's there, and the next he's not, and what remains is just eerie quiet and stillness. It's unusually disconcerting.

I suppose part of me is relieved. To slip away quietly… His condition would only have worsened as time went on. And yet… I don't know…

Don't know what to think.

**Saturday 5th November **

**18:15 — Home. _Proper_ home.**

Have finally left Yorkshire behind.

No need for me to step foot in that county ever again. No need for me to trudge over those barren cliffs. No need to for me rattle about that empty old house. No need for me to put my own life on hold…

Like there was anything to put on hold…

Saw Granger today, before I left. She has timing, I'll say that for her.

I was clearing out the house of my father's possessions. He owned very little of note, and I left most of the furniture where it was. Not like I'll ever have need of it. I filled up several bags full of his clothes and threw them out the front, ready to be disposed of. Not like I will ever have need of them, either.

Sifted through a desk full of letters; none of which were anything important—bills and junk that could have been thrown out years ago, mostly. I lit a fire out in the garden and threw all the papers onto it.

I went through his bedroom, pulling out drawer after drawer and finding very little apart from a selection of photographs. I rifled through these with a certain amount of interest; there were photographs of him as a boy; photographs of him as a young man; photographs of his brother; photographs of people I didn't know, and… nothing else. That was it.

Nothing more.

I stormed downstairs and poured myself a drink.

Of course, I stupidly expected to find something that showed… that he…

Ridiculous. Well, not the first time I've been misguided. Likely won't be the last.

I marched outside, dumping the whole lot on the flames and then sat on the wall to watch it all burn.

There was little or no satisfaction to be had, and that only made me even more angry.

I left the wall, turning my back on the fire, and went to the end of the garden. I took out his last packet of cigarettes and lit the final one. I sucked on it a few times, before crushing it underfoot with a noise of frustration.

Don't even like the damned things.

I told myself there was no earthly point in getting so wound up. This was nothing new. I'd always known he was a selfish bastard. And he's gone now; that is the end to it all—the final full stop.

I threw an _Aquamenti_ charm over the fire and simply looked at the blackened remains.

And it was then that Granger appeared around the side of the house, completely unaware of what she was walking into. 'Afternoon,' she said, looking quizzically at me, the bags, and the smoking embers. 'What's going on?'

I glanced heavenwards, silently cursing whomever it was that deemed I should be tormented in this fashion. I did not want company on this day, and _hers_ even less so.

I moved to open the garage doors.

'Where's your—'

'My father is dead.'

She was silent for several moments, during which time I set about rummaging through the junk my father had accumulated and subsequently dumped in the garage.

'I'm _so_ sorry,' she said finally.

'Don't be,' I replied flatly. 'I'm not.'

I froze in my search through an old tool cupboard, wishing I'd bitten through my tongue before allowing those words to come out. I sighed heavily, fully expecting her to march off in a fit of disgust.

'And it _was_ natural causes,' I added, digging myself deeper into the hole I'd created. 'A heart attack—in case you were wondering whether I'd had enough and decided to help him on his way.'

As soon as the words had dissipated into silence, I felt ridiculous. What had possessed me to say such a thing? My frustration began to drain away to be replaced with a sense of disappointment.

'Why on earth would I think that?' she asked, sounding rather astonished.

'Not as if I don't have form…' I muttered, wishing fiercely that she would go away and leave me to my misery.

She appeared to ignore my admission, and, instead, only said: 'You should have said something, you know… Told someone…'

I shrugged my shoulders and walked past her, back out into the garden. Said what, exactly? And to whom? To _her_?

Right… I could see myself taking _that_ course of action…

She followed me and I ventured a glance at her. She was staring at the vestiges of my fire, and more specifically, at the photographs I'd burned. I had an urge to defend what would seem to her a, no doubt, callous act. But then I thought, _why do I care what she thinks? _

Of course, it's becoming painfully obvious that I care more than I should, but I've not the energy to dwell on that difficulty at the moment. So I shall just ignore it.

Seems I underestimated her, though… again. There was no reproach on her face, but there was curiosity, and I sighed inwardly to see it.

'It's obvious you and your father did not see eye to eye…' she began.

I snorted.

'But, you shouldn't underestimate the significance of you being able to put all that aside to stay with him, and to reach some sort of—'

'Nothing was _ever_ resolved between my father and myself, Miss Granger,' I interrupted shortly. 'The man you met was not the man who grew to despise both me and my mother.'

I scowled at myself for saying so much.

'Why did he despise you?' she asked quietly.

The immediate thought to cross my mind was that there was no way I was saying anything more on this front. It was none of her business—nothing to do with her.

But… then I wondered if it would really be so bad if I did talk. Maybe I needed someone to listen and tell me that I was right, or that I was talking crap, or that I'm unreasonable, or that I'm selfish, or… whatever. At least then I'd know where I was.

It's not something that must be hidden, really, either. There's nothing shocking or dramatic about it. No dark secret.

'He was… afraid of me,' I muttered eventually. 'He was afraid of my mother, as well. It's only something I came to understand in later life, but yes, it all stems from the fact that he grew to be afraid of magic.'

That's where his bitterness had originated. Born out of his inherent view that magic was unnatural—that magic went against everything he had ever known. But that was only one part of it.

'Never underestimate the fragility of male pride, Miss Granger.' I looked at her and there was a pensive expression on her face. 'He felt emasculated by his wife who could do things he felt were against the natural order of things; things he could never dream of doing. And then he had a son whose _only_ interest in life was magic.'

I never showed any interest in the ways of Muggles. And he, being the stand-offish, resentful man he was, never tried to ignite any interest for me. Quite the opposite, in fact.

'It was me he was really afraid of, especially when I finally got my wand. He knew he could handle my mother. She'd never use magic against him in anger. He couldn't be so sure with me—he was the recipient of much of my uncontrolled bursts of magic as a child.'

Made all of his cigarettes disappear once; he'd loved that. He'd loved it almost as much when I'd locked him out of the house as a five year old. Tip of the bloody iceberg, mind.

I sighed. 'Anyway, there came a breaking point. I arrived home from my sixth year to find he'd upped sticks. Never heard from him again until some Muggle social worker turned up on my doorstep four years ago. So you see, _nothing_ was ever resolved between us, for we never spoke of it. '

And maybe, despite myself, I always hoped we would. Maybe I'd hoped he'd show some sign of regret, or… a sign of _any_ feeling towards me, really. But I honestly think my father never saw himself as being in the wrong. Because _surely_ he could not have been unaware of the ever-bloody-present elephant in the room these last few years? Might have been a bloody herd of elephants, as far as I'm concerned.

Her next words seemed to indicate she was reading my mind.

'He can't have been entirely oblivious to the significance of you being here, after all this time. Even if he never said anything; it can't have meant nothing…'

Well, she's obviously an optimist, isn't she? She doesn't realise that conjectures, and let's face it, baseless ones at that, are not enough and never will be.

'It's all moot now, isn't it?' I dismissed, feeling it was time to abandon the subject.

Things may not have been resolved, but I suppose I've had chance to put them into better perspective, and that, actually, is more than I'd ever anticipated. Maybe that will be enough to be getting on with. And if not, well, I'm sure one more piece of emotional baggage won't kill me.

She looked around ather surroundings. 'What, ah, are you going to do now? What'll happen to this place?'

I looked at the house and still felt absolutely nothing for it. 'I'm going home and nothing will happen to this place. Can hardly sell it, can I? Who, in their right mind, would pay money for this condemned pile of bricks?'

'Suppose you're right.' She looked over to the cliff edge, no doubt lamenting the fate that awaited. Her sentimentality doesn't surprise me anymore.

I shoved up my sleeves and headed back into the garage. I was about to start looking through some more boxes when her voice filtered in from the doorway.

'Are you keeping the car?'

I paused and nearly smiled; _nearly_, mind. 'Don't see why not.'

She did smile; a small one.

I shrunk it down to the size of a toy car and shoved it in my pocket.

'If you, ah, ever decide to learn to drive, legitimately, I mean, with a proper licence and everything, I would be happy to help…'

As if! She's the last person I'd go to for driving lessons! Can just see her smiling to herself while I fiddle and fumble about like the novice I am. 'I'll bear it in my mind,' I said, nodding.

She looked pleased and then proceeded to look around the garage keenly. I knew what was coming next; an offer to help.

'Miss Granger, forgive me, but I wish to finish this before it gets dark…'

'Oh,' she said slowly. 'Right, of course, I'll leave you to it, then, if you want. See you around, maybe…'

She wouldn't "see me around;" not around here any longer, anyway.

She hurried off and I tried not to dwell on the fact she might think me rude. There's too much for me to think about without adding her to the equation. Feel enough like shit, as it is.

I soon emptied the garage of anything that needed disposing of, and anything else I left in situ. I placed Locking charms on the doors to both the house and the garage. Why I bothered, I don't know. Not going to make one whit of difference if the place gets broken into… Still, seemed the right thing to do, though.

There was one more thing I needed to do before I left. I took my father's ashes and scattered them out over the cliff-top. He'd not left any specific instruction, but I knew he'd rather be there than anywhere else.

So, that was the final underscoring of my relationship with my father. An unfulfilling and inadequate relationship, but maybe Granger was right. Maybe there is something to be said for the last few years. They may not have redressed all that went before, but at least they created an interesting juxtaposition.

And before I Apparated away, I took one last look over the grey sea, deciding that I wouldn't miss this place.

But I was struck by one thing.

Am now the very essence of a free man—free from all duty; responsibility… family…

Strangely, it's actually not that liberating; if anything, it's distinctly unnerving.

**18:50**

Nice to be home, though.

Have neglected my plants something terrible.

**Monday 7th November**

**9:00 — Home.**

Rather strange being back in my own environment again. Keep expecting to see a barren waste-land out of my window, rather than a busy street. Keep expecting to hear a brusque shout from my father. Or even just the sound of the waves against the cliff.

Have something to occupy myself with today, though.

I've received a note from Minerva asking me to go up and see her as soon as possible. I might fear the reason she wants to see me is because she has heard of my father's death.

Except… I think Minerva knows me well enough to realise I would not want to, God forbid, _talk_ about it in any way.

So, I think it must be about some unrelated issue. In which case, my curiosity is well and truly piqued.

Must remember to buy some supplies on the way back, too. Bugger all here to eat.

**16:00 — Hog's Head.**

Hmm…

Am not sure what I have just done—what I have agreed to.

Well, I obviously do know, but I'm not sure as to the consequences, and I expect there will be some; there always are. If I didn't know Minerva better, I'd say she's just deliberately taken advantage of me in my compromised state.

Anyway, I arrived at Hogwarts during the afternoon; Minerva was waiting for me in her office.

'Severus!' Dumbledore's portrait exclaimed upon my appearance in the office.

'Dumbledore,' I stated flatly, sparing him only the briefest of glances.

'I was sorry to hear of your father's passing,' said Minerva immediately, and I groaned inwardly, fearing I'd misjudged her after all.

'Why didn't you tell me? I had to hear it from Hermione Granger, of all people.'

She must have seen my expression darken, for she said: 'Don't worry; she's not been blabbing to all and sundry.'

'I take it this is not the sole reason you wished to see me?'

'No…' she trailed off and looked indecisively at me. 'It's a bit… I have a problem, you see… um—'

'Clearly,' I muttered under my breath at her dithering.

'It's about Horace. He's been taken ill—'

I'd heard enough. I got to my feet, prepared to simply walk out.

'Oh, _Severus_—'

'No, Minerva,' I interrupted firmly. 'I'm not interested.'

She sprang to her feet and came out from behind her desk before I could reach the door. 'It would only be for a month or so—till the new year, probably.'

I shook my head.

'Please, I'm desperate. I can't find anyone appropriate at such short notice, and most of the staff here don't know one end of a cauldron from another, else I'd split the duties between them!'

'I'm not a teacher, Minerva. The job was never _me_. You don't think I took on the position because I wanted to, do you? You know it was all part of _his_ ridiculously incomprehensible machinations.' I looked towards Dumbledore who watched us silently.

'You did enjoy it, sometimes,' she suggested; in a small voice, granted, but still entirely seriously.

'Has Pomona been growing special plants, again?'

'Your results were always some of the best, Severus! And have you forgotten how often Slytherin won the House Cup with you in charge?'

'Flattery will get you nowhere, Minerva. Furthermore, you are confusing my irrepressible need to succeed at everything I do with an innate love for the job and a desire to do right by the children.'

'So what else do you have planned, then? Anything? Have you found yourself a new job?'

Bugger; she had me there. Still haven't made any headway regarding my employment situation. Seems like I haven't had the time, which is ridiculous, of course, considering the hours of boredom I have collected over the last few months.

'You know the Ministry will pay well for a supply teacher. You can teach Potions with your eyes closed; it would be easy money for you, and you can use the opportunity to think more about your career long-term.'

I was beginning to fold; I could feel it and I struggled against it. 'Minerva—what if I don't want to come back _here_?' I gave her a hard look and she suddenly couldn't meet my eyes.

Wasn't an excuse, really. It's one thing setting foot in the castle now and again, but having to spend days on end within it's walls… Wasn't sure I'd want be amongst all those reminders.

'Yes… you're right; I understand. I apologise for putting you on the spot, Severus.'

That was surely my cue to leave. But I hesitated, already thinking that I could manage a few weeks back in the castle. Already thinking that I did not anticipate the prospect of being at home and bored out of my skull, with only my _destructive_ thoughts for company.

I hesitated for too long. Minerva evidently saw her new opportunity and she took it, speaking to me with only a slight air of desperation.

'Look, I'm willing to listen to any stipulations you might have. If you want to leave the castle of an evening, that's fine. If you want to someone else to supervise your detentions, that's fine. If you want to be excused from dinner in the hall, that's fine—'

'How about a bottle of Ogden's for every week I'm here?'

Her expression soured. 'Excuse me?'

On second thought, I might never leave if she agreed to that set-up!

'How about I write you a list of desirables and you can provide me with a gift each week I'm here, to really show your gratitude. There's this silver cauldron I've been fancying—'

'I'll teach Potions _myself_ before I resort to buying silver cauldrons!'

'You know the budget can take it, Minerva.'

She laughed then. 'Are you going to agree or not? And I'll buy you _one_ bottle of whisky if it will ease the way for you.'

A hundred and one thoughts passed through my head at that moment as I deliberated over what to do. But really, the decision seemed simple enough. Didn't have any better offers coming my way, did I? Not as if people were knocking down my door to employ me.

'Till the end of the year,' I warned.

She clapped her hands together. 'Wonderful! That's a real weight off my mind!'

I thought, with no little amount of horror, that she might entirely forget herself and embrace me, so relieved did she look. However, I am happy to say, Minerva can always be relied upon to not get too carried away, and she was soon retreating behind her desk.

I dread to think what might have happened, otherwise. Our vague friendship would have been effectively ruined, as far as I'm concerned.

'And it's _two_ bottles of whisky, mind,' I said as I left. 'One for each month of my stay.'

**Wednesday 9th November**

**12:30 — Hogwarts! **

So, here I am. Have not been home for two minutes and have now packed bags again and, this time, relocated well beyond Yorkshire for the Scottish Highlands.

And yes, part of me is unsure that this is the right thing to do, but actually, having something to put my mind to might be beneficial. I'm not sure how much sitting around I can take, and probably more than anything, I need the money, as well.

Who knows, it might be the best decision I've made in a…

Wait… When the hell am I going to bump into Granger now that I am holed up in the castle?

She's hardly likely to turn up in this neck of the woods!

Humph.

Have clearly not thought this through.

**19:00**

I must say, there is a lot of enjoyment to be taken from being back here.

Walked into the Great Hall for the first time this evening and took my seat to the sound of stunned silence. The silence was then followed by a cacophony of hurried whispers. Minerva made an announcement detailing my purpose in being there, and there were varying degrees of reaction from the students.

Most, it has to be said, looked horrified.

The ones who were smiling at their stricken counterparts are clearly those who have dropped Potions for their NEWTs.

That's fine. I'll find some other way to terrorise them.

The Slytherin's looked very smug. Which is also fine, except, they'll probably rethink their position after I've finished with them. I've seen the state of their House points, haven't I? Horace has been letting the side down very badly.

No surprise there.

Tomorrow, then, I shall be stepping into my first lesson in five or six years. A lesser man would be intimidated. I, however, am not. I may even be looking forward to it.

On a side note, I feel sick. Over extended myself at dinner, I think. But in fairness, I calculate it's been about three months since I've sampled the fare of a house-elf.

**Thursday 10th November**

**9:57 — Dungeons!**

First lesson is over.

Seems I'd forgotten just how ignorant some people are. Merlin.

Is it too much to ask for at least one child to step into the classroom with more than one brain cell at their disposal?

First-years next. This will surely be the highlight of my day.

I mean this sincerely.

**11:00 **— **Staff room. Morning break.**

First-years cannot look me in the eye, it seems.

I wonder what stories the older students have been telling them about me? Or does my reputation really precede me that much?

Clearly, am Hogwarts legend.

**17:00**

First day over with, then, and it has been all right. More than all right, actually. Felt good to be doing something practical—useful—all day. Makes a change. I've no doubt I'll be ready to rip my hair out by the end of the month, but still, I'll manage.

Suppose it's a change to be around people again, too. Am currently sitting in the staff room with a few of the others.

That Charlotte, mind, is a funny one. She doesn't seem to want to come near me; not even with a ten-foot barge pole. She was standing by the sideboard when I went to pour myself some tea and she shot across the room! Have a terrible feeling she fears I'm going to jump her, or propose marriage, or Merlin forbid, _talk_ to her.

God knows what Minerva, or one of the other crones, has said to her about me.

Feel like going up to her and telling her 'Relax; you're not my type.'

But let's face it; the idea that I have a 'type' is laughable.

**Friday 11th November**

If I've missed anything about teaching, it's hissing '_Ten points from Gryffindor_!'

The satisfaction to be had from such diversion is not to be underestimated. Especially when one witnesses Minerva McGonagall's pursed expression every time she passes the hourglasses.

She had the temerity to take me on again, she must deal with the consequences.

Dying to hand out my first detention; but no one has yet dared to put a foot wrong with me. Shall continue to bide my time. Once the novelty of my presence wears off, they'll be committing transgressions left, right, and centre.

**Saturday 12th November**

**23:40 — Bed.**

Have had such a good night I am in danger of waxing lyrical.

Shan't though, obviously.

Being as it was a Saturday evening, a few of us went down into Hogsmeade, to the _Three_ _Broomsticks_, for a snifter or two (five). An hour into our session, however, who should walk into the pub?

Potter, Mrs Potter, and Granger. Thankfully, no sign at all of Weasley.

Can't say I was entirely pleased to see the Potters. Have been avoiding all contact since Granger made that ridiculous comment about parental figures. Ugh. Still, I didn't mind being proved wrong in doubting _she_ would ever come this way.

As soon as they were spotted, my fellow colleagues were waving and shouting them over. I, naturally, remained unmoved. I half-hoped they would utter a greeting and then toddle off to their own spot, but, unluckily, they were more than happy to join our little gathering. I say unluckily, because the most convenient place to pull up some extra chairs was next to me. And Potter got there first.

And oh my good Merlin, the first thing he said to me was: 'Alright mate?'

Alright _mate_?

Christ almighty.

'I will be if you never call me that ever again,' I muttered.

He just laughed—right in my face.

Granger, I could see, was talking to Minerva, so I was clearly stuck with the boy wonder. 'What are you doing up here?' I asked, not particularly interested in the answer.

He took a sip of his… _Butterbeer (when will he ever grow up?)__…_ before replying that 'the kids are with Molly and we've come for a night out.'

I went silent then, my list of conversational topics with Potter exhausted. Of course, he was more than happy to pick up where I left off.

'Was surprised to hear you'd gone back into teaching.'

'I haven't _gone back into teaching_,' I refuted immediately. 'I am merely doing Professor McGonagall a favour.'

'A favour, eh?' I swear he lifted his eyebrows sceptically.

'You don't think I _enjoy_ being surrounded by hordes of self-obsessed, ignorant, disrespectful, and ungrateful dunderheads, do you?'

Fear my tone might have become a little heated, for Granger, clearly having overheard, was now shamelessly eavesdropping. Suddenly felt a little self-conscious…

Potter just shrugged.

'So what on earth _would_ induce you to agreeing to return—for however short a period?' asked Granger suspiciously.

Why is everyone seemingly trying to get me to admit to a secret love of being a Potions master? Surely the evidence speaks for itself? For God's sake; _they_ were my students! If I'd felt I was doing my life's work through moulding young minds then I wouldn't have treated the majority of them like shit, would I?

I treated them like shit precisely _because_ I was pathologically frustrated and bitter about my situation _in being a sodding Potions master_!

It's that simple!

Clearly, they don't believe I'm capable of doing people favours.

Thought maybe they'd believe _this_ of me, though: 'Not going to pass up the opportunity to be looked after by house-elves, am I?' I answered plainly, sipping my whisky. 'Toddy, one of the elves, is a little marvel.'

To my surprise, Granger froze—an expression of disbelief on her face. I looked at Potter and he appeared to be on the verge of laughing.

'Hermione is very passionate about house-elf liberation,' he explained to me in a conspiratorial voice.

I nodded in understanding. How typically _Granger_ is house-elf liberation? I mean, really; could she be any more of a cliché?

Her expression now was as stony as any I had witnessed during the period of our re-acquaintance.

'Well, relax, Granger, eh?' I said calmly. 'It's not as if I ask Toddy to wash my feet _every_ night…'

Potter spluttered into his glass and then openly laughed when he saw Granger's pinched expression. It's not often that I laugh at my own wit—devalues it, in my opinion—but I nearly did this time.

'I know you're having me on,' she remarked dismissively, raising her shoulders in a flippant gesture.

'Am I? Well, why don't you ask Toddy? Once she's finished buffing my cauldron collection, that is…'

'That's not funny,' she said disapprovingly, but I saw her rub a smirk from her lips with her hand! Ha!

'_I__'__m_ not laughing; Potter is.'

'Harry should know better.'

At that point, Hagrid lumbered in, and Potter excused himself to go and join his wife with the half-giant. While Granger, to my secret horror and, yes, satisfaction, slid into Potter's empty seat. Wish Weasley had been there now.

'So, how's things?'

I knew there was another layer to this otherwise innocent, but probing enquiry, and it was to do with my father, of course.

'Fine,' I said curtly, hoping she would not insist on delving into the matter further. I don't know whether she wants to believe I am painfully cut-up over my father's death—whether she wants to see proof of an upset that, I do regret to say, just isn't there.

The manner of my father's demise, of course, rouses within me a certain grimness of feeling, but his passing has not affected me adversely. The simple truth is that all the damage caused by that man manifested and hardened itself years ago. To say nothing of what else I have been through over the years.

Perhaps I should have implied some level of inner hurt to her. I wonder what she would have done had I solemnly delivered some trite inanity like 'I am taking each day as it comes,' or 'I'm bearing up'?

Would have been unforgivable of me, I'm sure, but still… Probably would have scored a few brownie points.

Have never tried to get people to like me through inciting pity, have I? Let's face it, I could probably spin out an enthralling tale of misery and woe, and it wouldn't be entirely too far from the truth, either.

But that recourse is completely too pathetic for even me to seriously contemplate.

Am patently not _that_ desperate!

Getting back to the point, Granger's reaction to my clipped remark was, actually, no less intriguing than if I _had_ painted some sorry picture of myself. In fact, she smiled in such a way as to make me think she knew something I didn't.

Something pertaining to me, that is.

'What?' I asked suspiciously.

'Nothing,' she replied lightly, smiling into her glass as she sipped her drink.

'_What_?'

'Men,' she stated simply, with a small shake of her head, as if she despaired of the gender in question.

Bit sick of her disdain for mankind, now, to be honest. Weasley really must be a first-class arsehole to have skewed her perspective in such a way.

'Granger—'

'Call me Hermione.'

'What's wrong with Granger?'

'Just thought we'd moved beyond surnames, that's all.'

'There's a threshold for that sort of thing is there?'

'In my experience, yes.'

I fought not to groan aloud. Hate being put on the spot. Especially when I'm not prepared for it, _and_ when there are others present.

And, ah, she was sitting awfully close, it seemed to me. Half wished Potter had stayed where he was. At least then I would have been in no danger of losing my grip on my wits. As it was, I felt I might become compromised from her proximity. There was no question of me shuffling in the opposite direction, either; there's only so close I ever want to get to Argus Filch.

'So what will you do when your two months here are over? Assuming they will be, of course.'

'What do you mean by "_assuming_"?'

'Well, the best-laid plans and all that…' She actually smirked.

'Horace _will_ be back in January, Granger, I assure you. And if he's not, I will _not_ be hanging around.'

'And what will you do, then?'

I tightened my grip on my glass, pretty fed up of everyone asking me this. If I fucking knew what I wanted to do, I wouldn't have had to lend myself to Hogwarts would I?

'Oh, well, my overall goal is to stand in the next election for Minister for Magic,' I said blithely.

Ha! That shut her up!

Not for long though. 'Very funny. So you don't know, basically.'

'Yes; I _don't know_.'

This was going well, wasn't it? I was getting right arsey with her for no particular reason. I frantically sought to smooth things out.

'How's Yorkshire? My father's house not in the sea, yet?'

'Er, I don't know, really. Haven't been there lately. Been thinking about finding somewhere different to go walking, actually—nice to have a change, now and again.'

Oh. That was interesting.

'My father would be ashamed to hear you say such a thing.' I grimaced sardonically. '_Ther's nowt betta than God's own county, tha knaws_.'

She smiled. 'I expect he was right. Tell me, if you grew up in the north, where's _your_ accent?'

'You mean, why did I not stand at the front of the classroom and say "_Ah can teach yer 'ow ta bewitch t' mind an' ensnare t' senses_"?'

She cackled loudly, and when a few of our companions looked to see what was so funny, I tried to look like I wasn't responsible.

'I never picked one up,' I explained, when she'd recovered herself. 'Maybe if I'd gone to a Muggle school, I might have.'

Thank God I didn't; all I can say.

'I see.'

She was quiet for a moment, before speaking again. 'Any suggestions where I might try my feet next, then?'

Had a distressing urge to suggest she try the highlands! And so, to compensate for my unease, what I actually said to her was that she might do well to try the south west coast.

Great.

Basically told her to try as far away from here as possible. Hopefully, _she_ didn't see it in that light, of course, but… I think it's well established that my luck doesn't run very far.

I wonder if she'll return to the _Three_ _Broomsticks_ anytime soon?

Let's just pray it's minus that bloody irritating Potter next time.

**Tuesday 15th November**

**13:00 — Lunchtime.**

Nearly got into a slanging match with Rolanda in the middle of the staff room today. Wasn't my fault. The stupid woman has only gone and invited fucking _Weasley_ to come and run a selection of Quidditch sessions. Granted, it's only for one day, but Merlin, is it necessary to have that layabout roaming the castle?

'Weasley is a crap Quidditch player,' I said to her. 'You'd have been better served asking Moaning bloody Myrtle to give instruction.'

'He's not _crap_, Severus,' she answered, clearly offended by my dismissal of what she obviously deemed a wonderful idea.

'The Cannons' slow descent down the league is nothing to do with Weasley's mediocrity, then? Flattened by the Harpies last week, were they not?'

A result I had very much relished.

'Admittedly, he has not played well recently, but he has had some very distressing personal problems—'

'Distressing?' I scoffed. 'I'm sure he found it _very_ distressing falling into bed with another woman. He was so _distressed_ he conveniently neglected to inform his wife of his despicable behaviour.'

The look she gave me suggested to me that I may have been a little too vehement in my disgust.

'Since when have you become all moral and noble, eh? Is this prudish side to you new, or has it always been there? Do we really need to judge him—'

'He's making out he's the victim—'

'No he's not—'

'Open your eyes, Rolanda; he's a self-absorbed piece of—'

'It's nothing to do with _you_, Severus, actually, so why don't you just keep your comments to yourself?'

She marched off in a huff then, probably because she knows I'm right.

In theory, I could avoid coming into contact with the ginger whinger when the time comes. However, have feeling I shall want to annoy him greatly.

We shall see.

**Friday 18th November**

**17:30 — (Should be marking work but can't be arsed).**

So much for it being pleasant to live amongst others again!

Was in the staff room earlier, minding my own business, doing a little writing, when Pomona pipes up, bold as brass:

'What's that book you're always scribbling in, Severus?'

There was any number of things for me to take offence at in that observation. I do not, and never have, _scribbled. _Neither did I appreciate her sticking her nose in my business; especially as there were several faces apparently intrigued at my answer. Comes to something when a man can't write in a book without an inquisition!

Was about to reply, very blandly, that it was somewhere for me to docket research ideas, when Minerva obliviously remarked:

'It's his diary.'

After a moment of stunned silence, Pomona let out a short laugh. 'A _diary_?' She looked at me in some surprise. 'You keep a diary, Severus?'

Minerva had better watch her back—that's all I'm saying.

'Yes,' I replied stiffly.

'What have you written about me?' Pomona asked eagerly. 'I dread to think!'

'Have you given your diary a name, Severus?' chimed in Rolanda, next. 'Or is it just plain old "_Dear_ _Diary_"?'

They all dissolved into little giggles then. Think they're so funny, don't they? Minerva had the grace to appear a little sheepish, but even as she said, 'Don't tease him,' I could tell she was dying to laugh.

I was not amused by all this; of course I wasn't. And I could have quite legitimately stormed off in a huff, or indeed, taken pains to make Minerva, particularly, feel guilty for belittling my, what has turned out to be, exercise in much- needed self-reflection.

I dish it out to them, often enough, however, so I'm prepared to take it in return.

For now.

**Tuesday 22nd November**

**12:30 — Potions.**

There we are, then. My first detention dispensed.

Not before time, too. I have rather a black-log of dirty cauldrons building up.

Knew it was only a matter time before they'd start trying their luck with me. Caught a Gryffindor boy stuffing whizzbees into his mouth when he thought I wasn't looking. I crept up behind him and he appeared to have half of Honeydukes in his lap.

'Detention for you, Stevens!' I hissed in his ear.

He jumped and sent his whizzbees scattering all over the floor.

'Pick them up; _every single one of them_.'

He was on his hands and knees for nearly quarter of an hour, because the Slytherins kept kicking the whizzbees across the floor.

Accidentally, you understand.

**Saturday 26th November**

**9:30 — Office.**

Weasley the Wanker has arrived. Funny thing though—I don't think he realised I was back at Hogwarts, albeit standing in for Horace. I think he's beginning to think of me as his personal tormentor, turning up regularly at unwanted occasions. Good.

Anyway, he has had hordes of gushing children following him around all day, and the bloody prick is loving it, I can tell.

_Hate_ people who seek attention.

And Minerva continues to fall way down in my estimation too, I'm sorry to say. Am very disappointed in her.

She stood up at breakfast this morning and made some prim, but sycophantic, speech to the children about how honoured they were to have such an illustrious former student back with them. When the phrase 'role model' passed her lips I nearly got up and left there and then; almost washed my hands of the bloody lot of them.

I fully realise we no longer live in the Dark Ages, but why can't anyone else see that Weasley doesn't deserve to be applauded? Adultery aside, all he does is sit on a broom and try and catch a few Quaffles. Why should that be a cause for admiration?

It's just what the wizarding world really needs, isn't it? A whole generation of children wanting to grow up to be like Ronald Weasley.

It's no good; am going to have to take myself down into Hogsmeade after dinner until he's gone, otherwise I don't know what I will end up doing.

For now, I shall hide in the dungeons. It's for Weasley's own good.

**18:30 — Dungeons.**

Going to Hogsmeade was a huge error on my part.

Oh God. Big fuck-up of the first order.

I was sitting in the _Hog__'__s Head_, drinking a pint, looking out through the window aimlessly, when I saw Hermione Granger walking down the high street and disappear into Dervish and Banges.

Was on my feet before I knew what was doing, ashamed to say. Not often I leave a three-quarter full pint behind, let me tell you. I stood on the street, unsure as to what, precisely, I was going to do.

I was contemplating, as I knew I would, retreating into hiding and pretending I never saw her, when I saw Weasley hurrying through the village from the direction of the castle. Had he also spotted Granger?

I was across the road and in his path without even thinking about it. Weasley's expression darkened and his pace slowed. I think he was planning on just ignoring me, which was sensible, in hindsight, but I wouldn't allow him to simply pass me by.

'Weasley,' I said, possibly a _bit menacingly._

He stopped in front of me and folded his arms in gesture both defensive and slightly threatening.

'What do you want, Snape?'

I said nothing.

'What's your problem? Just what_ is it _that you're after, eh?' His eyes slid to Dervish and Banges and a flicker of comprehension passed over his face. 'My ex-wife, perhaps?'

Ah. Was a bit thrown then, wasn't I? Before I could muster a response, he was chuckling darkly.

'Thought I hadn't noticed, did you? Oh Merlin; boxed yourself right in this time, haven't you? Do you think Hermione would ever turn her attentions to _you_?'

'Why don't you just—'

'Just what?' he interrupted loudly. 'Think I actually feel sorry for you, Snape. I mean, it's just plain _stupidity_ to fall into the same trap twice, isn't it?'

He had the gall to pat my arm as he brushed past, and I couldn't help what I did. I was so infuriated with him that I grabbed him by the scruff of his ridiculous Quidditch gear and yanked him back in front of me.

'How dare you talk to me like that, you little shit.'

He shook himself free of my grip and when I saw his wand, I reacted instantly. A split second later, Weasley was lying in the gutter, ah, somehow looking very much stupefied.

Whoops.

What was I to do with him? I was considering levitating him into one of the narrow back lanes, to leave him there unseen until the spell wore off, when the doorbell to Dervish and Bange's tinkled, signalling the arrival or departure of a customer.

I knew who it would be, just as surely as I knew my own name.

'Severus!' she stated in surprise, stepping around to look at me. 'What—_Ron_?' she suddenly exclaimed, staring down at the prone form of her former husband. 'What the hell happened?'

I watched her bend her knees to turn Weasley onto his back, succeeding, as she did so, in bringing my blood to a very steady boil.

'Did _you_ do this?' she asked, looking up at me with a frown of disbelief.

Considering I was standing there with my wand out, I felt she could have been rather more assured in her inference than she was.

'Might have,' I muttered.

Couldn't stand it any longer. I side-stepped them both and headed back in the direction of the castle. She could see to her precious Weasley; fine by me.

However, I'd only gone a few paces when I heard her call out:

'Ah, excuse me, but you cannot just go around _Stunning_ people whenever you feel like it!'

I halted and spun around, prepared to tell her I could bloody well Stun who I bloody well liked! Except, I discovered she had abandoned Weasley to hurry after me. She hadn't even bothered to cast _Ennervate_ on him yet.

Most importantly, however, she was hiding a smile by biting her lip.

'So what did he do to deserve it?' she asked next.

Was pleasantly surprised by this twist of fate. Expected her to get all hoity-toity about my actions. Still, I could hardly explain the reasoning behind my ire without giving myself away. 'He exists; isn't that enough?' I said instead, which, actually, isn't really that far from the truth of the matter.

She didn't say anything, but simply looked at me for several moments. Wasn't sure what to make of her appraisal, but unfortunately, the fact that I'd just felled Ronald Weasley in the middle of Hogsmeade made me a bit defensive, so I fear my expression may have turned a little obstinate.

'Well… I'd better go and sort him out…' Her words were very much in contradiction to her actions, for she continued to just stand there. I was beginning to feel a little bit self-conscious under her contemplation, so I sought to direct it elsewhere.

'Ah, Granger—Weasley is beginning to attract an audience.'

I nodded at the scene behind her, and she looked to see several people now standing over Weasley with concern.

'Oh!' she exclaimed, running back up the street.

Somewhat reluctantly, I pushed on back to the castle, wondering if Weasley would relate precisely how he'd ended up flat on his back in the gutter. I don't think he'll give her the actual details. It's hardly in his interest, after all.

What is in his interest, however, is to make out the attack was entirely unprovoked. Well, good luck to him, because Granger clearly won't believe him. Ha!

I hope not, anyway.

**23:00 — Office. Slightly drunk.**

I think… No, I am rather sure I would like to see Granger again.

Bah. How pathetic am I?

There is only one option open to me, really, because there's no way on God's green earth I am ever going to find the impetus to ask _her_ out! I want to die just thinking about it.

I think… Yes, I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to request a _driving lesson_.

! ! ! !

It's asking for trouble, I know.

Will send a note asking for her assistance in setting me up with the legitimate means for learning to drive.

Hmm… where's my parchment?

Am fairly confident she will suggest some sort of meeting in response, and aim will have been achieved without me having to reveal even one card, let alone my whole hand!

Too cunning for my own good, sometimes.

**23:45 — Owlery!**

Oh fuck! Why am I such a stupid prick?

As soon as the owl took flight with my note to Granger, I felt cold sobriety creeping up on me and with it, regret for my hasty and ill-thought-out action. No! I don't want to meet up with her! I don't want driving lessons from her! I don't want to compromise myself further!

I even leaned over the parapet as if to grab the owl back. No such luck. I snatched out my wand, prepared to _Accio_ the owl back, but…

I had just about enough sense left in me to realise saying '_Accio owl' _in the vicinity of an owlery is a _huge_ error of judgement.

Why couldn't I have waited until the cold light of day? What sort of idiot decides on an onerous trek to the owlery, late at night, to send off a letter about _driving lessons_?

An idiot who is under the effects of too much booze, that's what.

I just hope the owl doesn't arrive at Granger's until a civilised hour.

Can't even remember precisely what it is I wrote in the note… Oh _God_.

Shan't be sleeping tonight; know that much!

* * *

AN: Thanks to Cave Felem for tidying up this chapter, and thank you all for reading and reviewing. One more to go : )


	12. December

**The Diary of a Nobody**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Thursday 1st December **

**11:00 — Staff room. Morning break.**

Is now three days since Granger sent a reply to my injudicious appeal for help in furthering my motoring career. It's only _now_ I've been able to bring myself to open the thing.

She's done exactly what I expected she would. She has suggested we meet to discuss how I would go about procuring a licence. It seems she did not notice anything… untoward about my letter… But why do I have this nagging image in my mind of me signing off my note in such a …

Oh, it's too embarrassing! And she's probably too polite to draw attention to it. Unless she's waiting for a face-to-face meeting in which to bring the matter to light? Aargh!

Feel like I should ignore it. Pretend her owl went astray or something. Shot myself in the foot, though, haven't I? Can hardly say no when it was _I_ who initiated the thing in the first place.

Ugh.

Oh fuck:

Double Potions with the first years next.

Bah.

**Sunday 4th December**

**11:00 — Office.**

There we go! Have replied to say I shall be in the Leaky Cauldron on Saturday afternoon.

Clearly am coward though, for have given myself a week's grace in which to prepare for potential disaster.

Oh God.

What a _nightmare_. Why do I do these things to myself? Weasley was right; think I would have learned my lesson by now, wouldn't you?

**Tuesday 6th December**

**23:20 — Dungeons; slightly squiffy.**

Have been back at teaching for a month, and yet, it feels far less than that. Am unused to my days passing so quickly, it seems.

Minerva was right. I _can_ teach Potions with my eyes closed. I could easily fall back into the old routine, and it would answer all of my problems with regard to my employment situation. I'm sure Horace would gladly step aside if I decided I wanted the position permanently.

Because, Hogwarts is definitely not the same as I remember it. Seems to be a real change in the air. Can't quite put my finger on it; I'm unsure as to its origin. Is it the product of external influence? Is it the result of the shadow of Voldemort having lifted? Is it the effect of Minerva's running of the school? Is the change to do with a new generation of children?

Or is it to do with me? Am _I_ the one who has changed?

What a terrifying thought.

I'm not sure there was ever a time before when I stood in my classroom with nothing else on my mind other than where I've put my quill, or what I hope will be on for lunch in the Great Hall.

Can appreciate the irony of me finding a moment's respite in this place, above all others. And actually, I feel like I've proven something to myself in coming back here and, for a lack of a better word, enjoying it.

This is definitely not me having some ridiculous epiphany about belonging forever more at Hogwarts, or even discovering a hitherto hidden love for teaching. That's not it at all.

Just … I can remember how I was during those… Potter years. The point, I feel, is that despite the recent months—the dwelling on my uselessness and hopelessness in many areas of life—my life _has_ improved. Compared to what it once was, anyway.

Am fully prepared to accept I shall always be fundamentally hopeless. Life has made me so and it is surely very late in the day to change my ways now. But maybe that's all right. Have been reading back through this infernal diary, what with it being nearly a twelve-month since I started keeping it. What strikes me is that I was willing to make an effort, for crying out loud!

I _made_ an effort! When have I ever done that before? Dare I say it, I even had some self-belief. Of course, that delusion soon came swiftly crashing down around my ears but…

At least I put myself in the position to find that out. That's the important thing, in my view.

My God. This entry reads suspiciously like positive thinking… Must be coming down with something…

**Thursday 8th December**

**19:00 — Staff room.**

Only one more day until I have to go to the Leaky and meet Granger. Feel a bit sick thinking about it, really.

Minerva has come up with a ridiculous idea to hold a big Christmas party in the Great Hall once the majority of children have buggered off home. What's wrong with having the staff party in the _Three_ _Broomsticks_?

Served us well enough for the sixteen years I was a teacher.

Fuck. Was I really a teacher for _sixteen_ years? No bloody wonder I can't get out of the habit…

**Saturday 10th December**

**21:00 — Staff room. Pissed off in the extreme. **

Am not sure whether to say today has been a good or bad day. Have cause to say both are applicable. A wand to my head, I'd plump for _very_ bad, however.

It was nearing midday and I was sat in the staff room, speed-reading through some essays, trying to calm my mind before my rendezvous at the Leaky. It was a nice moment of peace and quiet. Filius was reading; Pomona was also marking work; even Sibyl was managing not to talk to herself…

And then the illusion was shattered. Shattered into tiny bloody smithereens.

Minerva comes into the room, clears her throat, and says, most bemusedly: 'Er, Severus? Hermione Granger has asked me to tell you to forget the Leaky Cauldron, and that… she's waiting outside… with the car…'

I froze over the essay I was reading, not entirely sure I had heard correctly. Outside? She was outside? As in outside the castle?

Forced myself into action, making a show of tidying up my papers and shutting my inkwell and determinedly ignoring the eyes following my every move.

'Right,' I said coolly, getting to my feet and making for the door, most definitely not making eye contact with anyone.

Was only when I was in the corridor that I allowed the full cringe to sweep through me.

What was she doing bringing the car here? I wasn't ready for a lesson! I didn't want one! It was just a front! A stupid, booze-driven front for something else entirely!

And I'd forgotten most of what I'd taught myself during that ill-fated foray into driving. She is a crafty know-it-all; lulling me into one situation and then doing an abtupt _volte face _when I least expect it!

Pushed my way through the doors, praying that the shit weather that blights this part of the country would be in evidence today and the grounds would, subsequently, be free of kids.

The sun was out.

And Granger had already attracted an audience. Does anything ever go my way?

Luckily, a few swift glares from me and the kids soon began to scarper.

'Sorry… Hope you don't mind me turning up like this,' she said as I closed the gates behind me.

Wisely, I said nothing.

'What happened to "doing things properly"?' I asked instead.

'Well… I won't tell if you won't.'

She got into the car, into the driving seat (thank God) and I, somewhat apprehensively, got into the passenger side. Note to self: robes aren't practical within the confines of a car—mine got jammed in the door. Twice.

'I'll drive us out of Hogsmeade, to somewhere a bit quieter.'

Lovely.

It was hard to miss the horrified looks we received passing through the Hogsmeade. 'Well done, Granger, it's quite a feat to offend a whole village in one go.'

'Oops,' she remarked, not very apologetically, in my view.

A meeting. A meeting in a pub; that is what I had braced myself for. Not a jaunt through the mountains in her car. However, it soon become clear that participation on my part was not entirely compulsory, for she seemed perfectly happy to chatter on non-stop about driving. I was told in brisk, know-it-all tones, that we were on a "single-track country road" where the speed limit was fifty miles per hour, which we knew because the "road signs tells us so."

"Road signs are very important, and may warn, advise, or give orders…"

"I'm using my mirrors all the time _blah_, _blah_, _blah_…'

I nodded at intervals to show I was listening, but was only a whisker away from casting _Silencio_ on her.

Wonder if she realises she's missed her vocation in life?

Thankfully, after a time, she pulled over and so ended her lecture.

'Do you have a Muggle birth certificate? ' she asked briskly, pulling out a sheaf of papers.

'Yes... ' Highly doubt I still have it in my possession, though.

'Good. You 'll need to fill out this form to get a licence.'

She shoved the paperwork over to me and I took it, knowing that I wouldn't fill it in. Not unless I get desperate enough, anyway.

'So, any particular reason you 've decided you want to go the whole hog?'

Ha. I wonder what her reaction would have been if I'd told her the truth? Terror, perhaps? Maybe she already knows? Still can't remember what I put in that note. In light of that remembrance, I sought to deflect all attention away from _any_ possibility that _she was the reason._

'Handy skill to have, isn 't it? And… ah, it was the one thing my father always wished to teach me, but never had the chance to…'

'Oh, I see. ' She smiled gently and nodded.

Oh dear. If I wasn't already destined for hell, then I 'm certainly headed there now.

'Well, let's swap over, then.'

'Wonderful, ' I managed to say, only a little bit uneasily, feeling like I was digging myself into somewhere I didn't want to be. Got out of the car with only one thought ringing in my head: why can't I be like any normal person?

Why?

Was stuck behind the wheel of a car, not really wanting to be there, with no idea of what I was doing, and all because I… am hankering after something silly.

In hindsight, am rather glad that I had something practical to concentrate on. Concentrating on not killing us both meant I didn't have to waste thoughts on surmising what she might be doing or thinking. Ugh.

The car rather lurched forward when I got it going.

'You had the clutch a bit too far above the bite,' she stated, very helpfully.

I felt there and then that this was never going to work. Her telling me what to do… Was only going to end in tears. I resolved not to give her further reason to _correct_ me. We maintained a slow speed, which I thought was fine considering the road was deserted and would likely remain so.

It was smooth going, until she said: 'Shall we try a little bit faster? Listen to what the engine is telling you.'

Bit my lip then; hard.

Unfortunately, the car made an alarming noise when I changed gear.

'No, no, that's fifth, not third!'

My God! My God!

And then, once that crisis was dealt with, she bloody reached over and grabbed the steering wheel!

'What—?'

'Best to keep to our side of the road.'

She was the one who said it was a bloody single-track road!

It wasn't working. It was almost as bad as having my father in the car with me. But at least I was able to vent my irritation with him around. Can't imagine Granger would be very happy if I started snapping at her. Was wondering how on earth I was going to keep a lid on my annoyance, when she managed to annihilate it with one innocent enquiry.

'Are you spending Christmas at Hogwarts? ' she asked suddenly.

Was a bit taken aback by this non-sequitur. 'Am I hanging around for the nauseating merriment and frivolity, you mean?' Not bloody likely. Hate Christmas…bleurgh…

'Well, we 've all received invites from Minerva about the bash she's having in the Great Hall…'

Oh God. Hadn't realised Minerva was inviting outsiders! 'Er, expect I shall have to show my face at some point…'

When did I become so pathetic? Or more pathetic, rather; have always been pretty feeble with regard to matters of the heart, after all.

'Well, if you don 't want to…'

I sensed her shrug her shoulders out of the corner of my eye, and I glanced quickly at her. The expression she wore reminded of how she 'd been all those months ago when she appeared to disapprove of everything I said and did.

'No one's going to force you,' she commented tightly. 'Slow down a bit; you're doing sixty.'

Suppose I did sound rather curmudgeonly. Great. Have presented myself to her as an old curmudgeon.

In for a penny …

'Do I look like someone who generally enjoys good cheer? ' Might as well be honest with her. Besides, you only have to look at me to see at which end of the happy spectrum I sit.

She seemed to concede a little, then. 'Not even when it's chemically induced?'

'I do find myself in such conditions slightly more … malleable, shall we say?'

'Malleable? Oh now, I have trouble believing you are ever _malleable_.'

Well, it was nice of her to say so, but, unfortunately, I do have the capacity for malleability and, sometimes, drink doesn 't even come into it (not something I'm proud of, by any means).

Eager to abandon all talk of my potential for pliancy, I was casting my mind around for another topic of conversation, when, to my horror, something bounded quickly into the road up ahead.

Let's just say I've got my emergency stop down to a fine art.

When I realised I was staring through the windscreen at Potter's Patronus—_that God-awful, maddening, uncomfortable connotation engendering Patronus_—I wished I'd just driven right through it, stopped, and then reversed _back_ through it for good measure.

The… _thing_ came right up to Granger's side of the car and she unwound the window. My blood was suddenly so cold in my veins that I barely registered Potter's voice saying, 'Hermione! Ron's been really badly hurt in a Quidditch match! Come to St. Mungo's when you can!'

She put a hand to her mouth, before fumbling with getting the door open. 'God… Sorry, Severus, um, I'm going to have to go… Will you be all right to Apparate back?'

At the time, I just nodded, slightly dazed. Now I'm thinking, well of course I was bloody all right to Apparate back! What does she think I am? Does she think I was born yesterday?

I got out of the car and she spelled it to shrink, shoving it in her pocket, before uttering a quick 'Sorry,' again and then disappearing. I just stood in the road, wishing I had a brick wall I could repeatedly hit my head against.

It's one bloody nil to Weasley, then.

Bet the bastard knew Granger was coming to meet me today and threw himself off his broom on purpose.

Not a bad idea, really. Be worth shattering a few bones when she comes running in, worried, concerned, and forgetting all of the crap because all she really cares about is that _he could have died._

It 's very clever. Nice one, Weasley; fucking _nice_ one.

_Bastard_.

**Monday 12th December**

**10:23 — Potions.**

Read the _Daily Prophet _this morning and they seemed to suggest that Weasley's condition was not so very serious at all. A nasty fall resulting in broken bones and a severe concussion—that's all.

Hmm …

Bet he 's milking it. Pasty-faced bastard.

**Wednesday 14th December**

**23:20 — Bed.**

Been thinking about Granger (my quill has pierced the parchment, so reluctant was my hand to write that sentence!).

It 's just my utter misfortune that the first feeling of _anything_ I develop for another person is for someone who could be my daughter. Even worse, someone who was once my student.

A double whammy, indeed. Could list further complications —it would be a lengthy one—but the two I have already mentioned are the foremost. Why couldn't I have been attracted to Lucinda in the same way?

Why? Because it would have been too damn simple and I can 't do anything the easy way.

Am being completely realistic and pragmatic when I say the idea any feeling on my part could be reciprocated is just … laughable. Indeed, I'm fully prepared to laugh at it myself.

The irony, of course, is that I decided I could never get over myself enough to be interested in another person. I decided I'd never be able to reveal enough of myself.

But I seem to have done it without realising.

What an idiot.

What to do? I should probably stay away from her, lest I get into an even more precarious predicament.

And yet … Can 't believe I am remotely contemplating this idea, because I know it is, must be, doomed to spectacular failure…

The idea, that is, of pursuing her.

I know precisely nothing about pursuing women, so the reality of what I eventually do will probably resemble nothing like pursuing … And as I said, the idea that I will be successful in any way shape or form is laughable. But not, a little voice tells me, entirely _impossible_.

And what the fuck have _I_ got to lose?

My dignity? That ship has sailed time and again; once more isn't going to kill me. My pride? Now, there's a joke; my pride has been battered against the rocks many a time.

Basically, have nothing to lose. And if I fail spectacularly —get humiliated beyond belief—shall simply have to emigrate to a distant land. Or _Obliviate_ myself.

This written posturing is all well and good, of course. When it comes to putting this philosophy into practice, I know I shall probably quail and shy away from ever carrying it through. It's that old lack of self-belief chestnut again.

Give me an obscure potion recipe and I wouldn 't even blink.

But anything personal … Ugh.

The test shall have to be this Christmas party. There will be no better opportunity for me to see how the land lies.

Still… what's the betting she's already reunited with Weasley over his smashed up face and legs?

**00:05**

Maybe _I _should throw myself off a broom, or under a herd of Hippogriffs, and see who turns up at _my_ bedside?

**00:10**

Better not—don't fancy waking up to an empty room.

**Friday 16th December**

**1:30 **

Can't sleep.

Humph.

**Monday 19th December**

Lessons are nearly over for Christmas and so will end my short teaching stint. Don't really know if Horace will be fit enough to return to duty come January, but well, that's not my problem.

Minerva asked me if I was planning on staying for the party on Friday and for the festivities in general. Despite the fact my decision to stay was already made, I had to tell her no. Had to tell her I'd rather book into Azkaban for a week than stay in the castle for Christmas, because anything else would surely have been too out of character for me.

Don't want to worry her, do I?

It was a dangerous game for me to play, because I was relying on Minerva's predictability and the very strong odds of her trying to persuade me to stay. But for one terrifying moment, I thought she was going to accept my grumpiness and leave me with a significant amount of egg on my face.

Luckily, she launched into rant about my "ungrateful and unfathomably miserable ways," telling me that she wishes for once in my life I would just "do what I'm told," otherwise, next year, she's not going to waste her breath on me and I can spend Christmas "doing whatever it is grouchy old bores do to amuse themselves".

Wasn't offended. It's the same rant I receive every year.

'Oh calm down, woman!' I exclaimed. 'You're enough to drive a man mental! I'll bloody well come to your poxy party if it'll shut you up!'

Ha!

And now she'll go and spread to everyone else how difficult I am and how she had to shout at me to get me to see reason.

Couldn't have worked out better, really.

**19:00 **

Bet after all this palaver Granger won't even turn up. Or if she does, she'll have Weasley hanging off her arm like some unsightly parasite.

Ugh.

**Wednesday 21st December**

**03:30**

Gah! Can't sleep again!

What's wrong with me?

Actually, I really don't want to know.

**Friday 23rd December (The Dreaded Day)**

**20:30 — Staff Room. Hiding from the party in the Great Hall.**

Well, that's it then. I officially give up and nothing shall ever convince me to do otherwise. This has to be one in a _very_ long line of utterly _shit_ days in my life.

Maybe I should see if Minerva _can_ give me a permanent position here. That way, I can live out the rest of my days in this castle with no other need for anything else in my life. Might as well fester away down in these dungeons until the time comes for them to bring me out in a box.

Anyway, I am come to the staff room to escape the nauseating merriment and cheer in the Great Hall. And more pressingly, to drown my not inconsiderable sorrows. Was only there for two hours before it all went tits up. Typical.

I sensed this evening was never going to be a great one, but it became a total fucking write-off the moment I decided to step outside for a breath of fresh air. For who should I have encountered whilst I stood at the top of the steps? Granger. She was standing some feet away talking to Potter's wife, and they both had their backs to me.

Nothing noteworthy about that spectacle, except, after a moment, I came to understand that they were discussing _me_.

'I haven 't been watching him,' Granger was hissing in annoyance.

'You have. '

'You 're wrong. I've barely noticed him all evening, in fact.'

'Oh, that 's a laugh!' exclaimed Potter's wife. 'Do you recall the first thing you said on entering the hall tonight?'

'That was nothing! A mere observation!' countered Granger defiantly.

Naturally, I was mildly intrigued as to what this "mere observation" might have entailed.

'What about that near apoplectic fit you had when McGonagall came over and asked for our assistance in finding a "_lovely Madame for Severus_"!'

I'm going to positively _wring_ Minerva's neck. Interfering old bag.

However, I am prepared to think Ginevra _was_ barking up the wrong tree, simply because I have seen hardly anything of Granger all night. Clearly, she did turn up, as did Weasley, but I was heartened to note they did not arrive together. What I wasn't heartened to note, on the other hand, was that mine wasn't the only head she turned with regard to how she was… presented. If I, a man seemingly incapable of ever getting animated (even solely in thought), looked at her and felt a hundred and one overblown adjectives spring to mind, then Merlin only knows what the others were thinking.

Bah.

She pranced and danced about with several people, but she's not turned in my direction once. Sad thing is, I think I would have agreed to a dance with her. _Very_ sad thing is, I probably would have agreed to a bloody tango, or a Viennese waltz, or a rumba, or anything. And I don't even know what a rumba is, but I would have given it a go, had she asked (bit of exaggeration, there, of course, but the sentiment remains the same).

'Personally, I think you might be well in there, you know,' Ginevra carried on, unperturbed. 'I didn't tell you I caught him having a go at Ron during Al's party, did I? It's rather suggestive, in hindsight. Maybe you should have a crack at him, if you feel—'

Can't say this didn't shock me. Wasn't the only one, either—Granger seemed aghast.

'Gin! Must you speak like that? I don't want a _crack_ at Professor Snape! He's old enough to be my father!'

I nearly choked on air.

So there they were; the dreaded, _dreaded_ words at long last. Can't say I was truly surprised to hear them. Not as if I haven't thought them myself, what with all this talk about Potter and father figures. I just hoped she…

Oh God.

Have I acquired two surrogate children?

But Granger already has a father, doesn't she? Please God let Granger have a father…

Well, at least my humiliation can remain my own. Potter's wife has done me a favour in that I now know there is nothing to be gained where Granger is concerned. She's saved me from making a right sorry prick of myself. Only _I_ need ever know how much of a stupid man I am—how I have become the type of man I am apt to scorn; weak, pathetic and foolish.

What happened to any sense I once had?

Ugh; maybe Granger was right to see something of a lecherous old dinosaur in me. She always was perceptive.

I give up. I hold my hands up and I give up.

**21:30 — Dungeons. Wishing I was someone else.**

Oh my good Lord.

Oh my _good Lord_.

What the hell have I done? What the hell has _she_ done?

In the space of an hour, things have deteriorated at an alarming rate!

Following the completion of the previous entry, it seems a combination of the booze, the depression, the quiet of the staff room, and my recent bout of insomnia conspired to send me into a slumber! I know this because after an indeterminate amount of time, I felt my eyes spring open, only to find my head resting on my arms on the tabletop. If that wasn 't bad enough, I could sense instinctively that I was no longer alone in the room.

I sat up immediately, flinching inwardly when I saw who was sitting in the chair next to mine, watching me calmly. It was her; Granger.

Before I could say anything, however, my eyes drifted to the table and my heart clenched in terror when I saw that I had left my diary, _this diary_, open! It was open on the page I had last written on! Open for all and sundry to see! Open while I forgot every ounce of stealth and secrecy I ever learned and fell asleep in a public setting!

I thought I might suddenly have a heart attack. The possibility of a security breach when one keeps such a record as this has to always be heeded, but I never thought I would suffer a lapse as this. The thought that anyone might read the words that I've written… I'm not being melodramatic when I say it could finish me off once and for all.

I don 't know how long I stared at the open book, my heart beating hard with terror. I forced myself to look where she was sitting, and her unusually grave expression meant nothing to me as I only thought to the worst scenario imaginable.

'Have you … read this?' I asked hoarsely, looking towards my diary.

How I dreaded her answer! More than that, I feared what I might do if she replied in the affirmative.

She stirred. 'No… I—'

I snatched my hand out and grasped the diary towards me, snapping it shut and gripping it tightly in my hand so that my nails dug into the binding.

'Tell me the truth!' I hissed, blood pounding my ears.

No one may imagine the crushing sense of pain and embarrassment I felt when I saw her lean forward in what I took to be a guilty, entreating gesture.

'Look, I'm sorry, I did read what was on the open page, but—'

I flew to my feet, a disembodied voice in my head repeatedly shouting 'Fuck! Fuck! _Fuck_!'

She'd helped herself to strictly classified information!

I wondered what the hell I was going to do to get out of this mess. Would she believe me if I claimed to be under _Imperio_? The victim of a _Confundus_ charm? The unwitting recipient of a Befuddling draught? Could I tell her I've been brewing all day and my brain has been temporarily addled by noxious fumes?

All these excuses and more passed through my mind, one after the other, but I knew they were all futile.

'I swear it was just that open page,' she pressed. 'It was an accident really, I didn't know what it was—'

'An _accident_?' I spat. And why did she think it was all right that she had only seen the one page? That page was one of the bloody worst out of the whole thing!

'May I remind you that _I_ did not leave the book open and in full view of anyone who might happen upon it?'

Oh, here was the defensiveness, then. Yes; all _my_ bloody fault. What was she even doing in the staff room, I wondered. Last I checked she was a barrister, not a bloody teacher. She had no business roaming the castle at will!

I was contemplating whether she might be amenable to a mild _Obliviate_ when she abruptly told me to "sit down".

Like hell was I going to "sit down" at her behest after what she had just discovered about me! I'd never be able to look her in the eye again!

Instead, I made for the door.

She jumped up with an exclamation. 'No! Wait! I want to say something!'

'Well, _I_ don't want to hear it!'

'You're not pathetic and foolish,' she stated in a small voice.

I paused at the door, positively struck dumb by the fact she was now daring to _quote_ pieces of my diary back to me! Who knew she had such a callous streak in her?

'Nor do I think you a lecherous, um … dinosaur.'

Christ almighty! Was she hoping to kill me through sheer embarrassment and humiliation? I wrenched open the door, half blind with shame and confusion.

'I wasn't being entirely honest with Ginny earlier, when you overheard us!'

_That_ caught my attention and I hesitated. She took advantage of my indecision to hurry forward and push the door shut again. She only looked at me briefly before scurrying away to drink from a wine glass she had evidently brought with her from the hall. I was jealous of that one sip; at that moment I could have done with a whole bottle to swig from … and then some.

'I wasn't being entirely honest with Ginny,' she repeated earnestly, looking at me as if she were about to sentenced to death at any moment. 'In fact, I was a little unfair to her, because her observations were, mostly, on the… mark.'

Oh God. It was worse than I had originally considered. She did like me, but she was too embarrassed to acknowledge it!

'I was a bit embarrassed, you see …'

! ! ! !

Aargh! There! She was admitting it to my face!

'Oh lovely, Granger. Thanks for that. _Thanks so much_ for the vote of confidence! Why don't you take your shame elsewhere, eh? And I'll take what remains of my perennially tattered ego and do the same!'

Her expression darkened considerably. 'I didn't mean it like _that_! I was embarrassed because _I_ felt foolish! Not everything is about _you_, you know. I couldn't possibly feel pathetic, could I? Oh no; only self-obsessed men with their precious, ridiculously fragile egos have the right to self-doubt!'

Well, that told me, didn 't it? Was beginning to think I might have made a terrible error in judgement. This was the second time I had witnessed a heated outburst with regard to men from her.

'Is your misandry something I should be concerned about, Granger?'

A sheepish smile appeared on her face. 'I don't hate men.'

'Could have fooled me, ' I muttered, moving back into the room and sitting in one of the armchairs. I could see things were not quite as I imagined them; could see that my embarrassment might not have to be so acute, and that allowed me to feel less tense.

Was still bloody tense, mind.

'It seemed unlikely … How was _I_ supposed to know you were… interested?' she questioned roughly.

I scoffed to myself, which was a wrong move, for I saw her bridle out of the corner of my eye. If Weasley could work out what I was about, then surely Hermione brainy-guts Granger could work it out too? _When the hell am I going to drive a car, eh_? I wanted to shout at her.

It wasn't going as I'd imagined it might. And, of course, I had secretly imagined how a resolution might come about, but transcribing those scenes into words is just going too far for me.

Think I was perturbed, really, by it all. Think, in hindsight, I might have preferred to continue in my misery of earlier, because at least that is familiar territory. More than that, there was something telling me this whole thing was ridiculous.

Even she appeared discontent.

'Perhaps we should forget this,' I found myself saying.

'_Why_?'

'I'm old enough to be your father, in case you'd forgotten?' Forgotten your own bloody comment!

She closed her eyes, but couldn 't say anything for, at that moment, the door opened and in walked Pomona, who flinched upon spotting us.

'Oh, sorry,' she said. 'I was just looking for my—'

'Never mind; I was just leaving.'

And as smooth as you like, I got up and left. Aargh! I'm such a prick! I strolled back to the dungeons as if nothing had happened. When I got inside my rooms, however, I fell apart.

Well, I didn 't really. What actually happened was that I collapsed into my chair and Summoned my fire whisky, but it amounts to the same thing. It's always pretty desperate when I don't even bother with a glass.

I stopped before I became irretrievably pissed, because I wanted to write this all down. I wanted to mark down the fact that I am a martyr to myself. Have cut off my nose to spite my face, haven't I?

Why do I do these things?

Am masochist. Must be.

For crying out loud, she practically told me she has … _feelings_ for me. Isn't that what I always wanted?

No. Think I almost enjoyed the idea of my having unrequited feelings for her. I enjoyed believing myself to be pathetic, useless, and un-likeable. Anything else would be un-chartered territory. Anything else would point to the fact that I don't even know myself—don't really know how others see me.

And it's this stumbling block that probably makes me inadequate, rather than other failing I perceive myself as having. Have hated myself for so long, I can't do anything but look for justification as to my being _right_ to do so.

What is she doing now? She's probably washed her hands of me. She's probably thinking, 'Fuck him; I can do better than that miserable fart!'

Well, she would be right.

Perhaps she'll have an epiphany when she goes back into the hall and sees Weasley…

Oh God. Maybe she'll throw herself at him because I've brushed her off like a speck of dust? I know Weasley wouldn't need much coercion.

It can't happen. I like her. Fact. I don't want her to go back to Weasley, or anyone else, for that matter. Fact.

Where's my self-belief? Where's my self-esteem? There must be _some_ I can muster together…

Feel the fear and do it anyway! Isn 't that what those self-help books teach? I can do that. _Have_ done that, many times in the past. She's just Hermione Granger. She's all but read my entire diary and I'm still standing!

I, _Severus Tobias Snape_, am going to face myself in the mirror and say, most confidently, that _I like myself_.

…

No good. Can 't. Still can't say it. Oh well, nothing I can do about that now. Shall have to draw on other reserves of self-worth.

And no one provides that better than old Ogden, in my opinion.

If I don 't go back up there and pull her off Weasley and tell her that, though I am a prick, I would still like to have a chance, I will regret it for the rest of my sorry life. A chance is all I will ask; yes, that is reasonable enough.

Am going.

Wait … Doubts are already kicking in…

No. _Will_ go.

**00:40 — Dungeons**.

So I went.

The party was still ticking over when I edged back into the hall. I scanned the scene, looking for Weasley's ginger profile, and by extension, Granger's bushy head. I had my hand around my wand, fully prepared to duel, should Weasley want to take it that far. Part of me hoped he would; haven't had a good duel in ages.

Except … I spotted Weasley and she was nowhere near him. In actual fact, she wasn't anywhere that I could see. Shit.

My immediate instinct was that she'd buggered off home.

However, it seemed that my luck on this night was beginning to change slightly. Weasley, I noticed, started hobbling on his crutches towards his sister, saying loudly, 'Say, Gin! Did I just see Hermione leave? She looked a bit pissed off.'

I sidled as near to Ginevra as I could, in order to eavesdrop.

'She said she wanted to be on her own for a bit. '

Weasley frowned. 'But where did she go?'

'She's still in the castle, somewhere. I think, ah… Remember where she used to go and read when we were in school? Try there, perhaps.'

Weasley nodded. 'Oh yeah, I remember.'

It was like they knew I was listening, because could they have been _more_ cryptic? It was frustrating, as I could have easily got to wherever she was hiding before Weasley, what with him doing his wounded soldier act.

It was not to be, though. Instead, I was going to have to employ all of my stealth and cunning and follow Weasley to this unknown destination.

So I did.

The hallways were dimly lit and it was easy enough to stay in the shadows whilst pursuing the idiot in front of me. The noise of his crutches nicely blocked out any possibility of my being heard. My God was it slow-going, though. I nearly gave up completely when he started hauling himself up the Grand staircase, fearing that by the time we reached Granger it'd be _next_ Christmas. Luckily, he only went up to the first floor, and so I continued onwards.

When we reached the Transfiguration hallway, I had a feeling as to where we might be headed. Especially as, up ahead, Weasley adjusted his crutches and ambled forward with a noticeably renewed vigour (and only a slight wheeze).

He had to be aiming for the Transfiguration courtyard. He was only a few paces shy of stepping into the cloisters when I pulled out my wand and, ah, _Petrificus Totalus__'__d _him.

There was a soft thump as he hit the floor and I used my wand to muffle the clatter of his crutches against the flagstones. Hurrying forward, I dragged him from the middle of the hallway and put him over to the side, patting his shoulder genially.

'Cheers Wanker—I mean Weasley.'

Told myself I'd worry about the consequences later.

Was just a man looking for a chance —who could blame me for that?

Hopefully _not_ Granger.

So, I stepped into the courtyard and lo, there she was. It was drizzling with rain slightly and I frowned to myself, thinking she might have picked a better spot for this to unfold. I proceeded to clear my throat, fully prepared to consider this would likely be the only opportunity I'd have. For one thing, I'll probably never be that perfect balance of drunk and sober ever again.

'Well … I've been thinking,' I began, a bit awkwardly, 'and it strikes me the most important detail is that I am not… your father; have never been your father; and, ah, never will be… your father.'

She spun around, looking at me as if she thought me slightly mad. Think she might be right, actually. The fact I'm not her father is hardly the most romantic of reasons for her to take me on, is it?

She surveyed me for a moment, before frowning. 'Look, if the age difference is going to bother you that much, then maybe we _should_ forget about it. I've had enough crap from men to last me a lifetime.'

Not what I wanted to hear!

'If this goes anywhere, I don't want you, six months down the line, to have some typically male identity crisis over the fact you're seeing a younger woman and then bugger off to go and nurse some inferiority complex—'

'You _do_ hate men.'

Maybe she should consider batting for the other side if men annoy her so much. I very nearly suggested it, but managed to quash the urge, feeling that, knowing my luck, she would actually think it a wonderful idea.

However, she laughed softly. 'I _don__'__t_ hate men,' she repeated. 'My experience of them has just left me a little bit defensive, I suppose.'

_Little_ bit?

'I'm confident I can look after you better than Weasley ever did.'

Will there ever come a time when I shall not cringe in terror at anything remotely sentimental in nature? Because, Merlin, I nearly curled up and died when those words left my mouth.

They were daring words, and they were more or less true. Well, sort of; I'm not _that_ confident. And when you consider how unclear my prospects are at the moment, she might have to chip in now and again and look after _me_.

'What makes you think _I_ need looking after?'

There was a dry smile on her face, and that's why I replied in my most obnoxious voice: 'Isn't that what all women want?' Oh my …! Her expression was so outraged! Ha!

'Are you a chauvinist in your spare time? '

'Only as much as you are a misandrist. '

A smile appeared around her mouth and she appeared to consider for a moment. 'Good answer… In that case, I shan't object to having dinner with you, next week.' She smiled challengingly, as if daring me to object. Why the fuck would _I_ want to object? She's the one who could probably do better.

She patted me on the arm as she passed me to go inside, the rain having now become a little heavier. Fuck the rain. I hurried after her, mainly because I didn 't want her to discover Weasley's stricken form yet. 'Er, dinner, yes, well, I shall look forward to it.'

Don 't think I will, really. Have a feeling I will mess it up and we'll have a crap night she'll want to forget. Plus, when she finds Weasley, she might want to throw me over out of principle. She can be a bit funny about propriety, when she wants to be, I've learnt.

'Indeed, I'm sure I shall have trouble waiting even that long.'

If ever I have said the right thing …!

She stopped in her tracks and appeared to blush slightly. 'Oh,' she said, suddenly rather diffidently, unable to meet my eye.

I used the opportunity to judge a different exit that would avoid Weasley, but there was no plausible alternative. If I started leading her the long way back to the hall, through all the darkened hallways and staircases, and considering what I'd only just said to her, she'd probably become a bit disturbed as to my intentions.

Even though my intentions are always honourable…

Suddenly, out of nowhere, there were lips on my cheek and I nearly flinched away with a yelp, but I just (_only just_) managed to contain myself and my surprise without her noticing it.

She's going to have to realise it'll be a while before I won't need preparation for any… sudden movements on her part.

'There's something for you to be going on with, then,' she commented brightly.

And then, to my dismay, she carried on walking, saying that we should get back before we got drenched. I thought I _might_ possibly get away with it. I thought she might not even see Weasley lying in the shadows. I thought…

But alas … the silly girl stumbled over one of his crutches.

'_Ron_? What the _hell_…?' She hovered a _Lumos_ charm over him and looked at me in shock. 'Who would do…? Oh God! It was _you_, again, wasn't it?'

I had to summon every ounce of my woefully underdeveloped charm that I possess. Was hard, let me tell you.

'Gr … _Hermione,__' _I began. 'My mind was made up—how could I allow anything else get in the way?' I aimed for a smouldering look, but of course, I have no idea how to pull that off. Luckily, I think the half-light helped me in that regard.

'And would you have wanted me to? ' I asked quietly, reaching out to smooth some of her hair behind her shoulder.

! ! ! !

Beginning to think I have hidden depths —hitherto untapped!

Was chuffed to see she looked slightly thrown, and the 'No' she uttered was just right—a perfect balance of reluctance and sincerity. Humbled any inner narcissism over the success of my machinations, anyway.

She freed Weasley and he hauled himself upright, looking as furious as I have ever seen him.

'You fucking prick!' he bellowed indignantly. 'What do you think you're playing at?' He goggled at me for a moment. 'Do you know what, Hermione? _This_ stupid git fancies you, and—'

I put my hand on Granger's shoulder. 'No hard feelings, eh, Weasley?'

Weasley's anger fell away to be replaced by an all consuming shock, which consisted of him opening and closing his mouth several times.

'Leave it be, Ron,' said Granger diplomatically, and I followed her as she walked away, half expecting Weasley to launch a curse at my back, but nothing materialised. Shame really; I had a volley of curses on the tip of my tongue, just itching for the go-ahead.

We walked in silence for a time, until she said: 'I have one request; will you please stop hexing my ex-husband?'

Ha! As if!

I scowled. 'Not like he was hurt—_either_ time.' Think I have showed exemplary restraint compared to what I could have thrown at him. Anyway, it's her stupid fault for having an ex-husband in the first place. Hate even more that it's _Weasley_.

'I can say that I shall not hex him unprovoked. Will that do? '

'Interesting caveat; suppose I can live with it. For now. '

She was smiling, despite her tone, and I nearly smiled back! (_nearly_).

Something more pressing was bothering me, though. The fact that I had secured an invitation to dinner with her was sinking in. Oh God. Have I emerged triumphant? Have I? For the first time in my life? What an awful thought! Where the fuck do I go from here?

I used all of my mental capacity to block out such thoughts and put them in the category of _I__'__ll worry about it later!_

We returned to the hall where things were still in full swing, and I, it has to be said, was at a little bit of a loss. Was I supposed to stay with her? Did she want me to bugger off now that an arrangement had been made? What was I supposed to do?

And the worst thing is, I know these kind of questions are only going to plague me even more as things progress (_if_ they progress).

'Shall we dance?' she suddenly asked, turning to me expectantly, while I groaned inwardly. 'I seem to recall you were willing give anything a go as long as I asked…' She trailed off laughing (no doubt laughing at my horrified expression). 'Let's see,' she continued. 'How are you at a quick-step?'

'Ha ha. I'm not dancing.'

How long is she going to tease me about my diary? It's a hugely sensitive spot that I'm not sure can take much prodding!

I folded my arms and looked around the room. There was no sign of a return from Weasley. Ginevra, I noticed, was not so surreptitiously spying on us, though. Nosey bint.

'I seem to recall,' came the voice of my companion again, 'I seem to recall quite clearly, in fact, that you danced with your… receptionist.'

Ouch. My _receptionist_? Her claws aren't far beneath the surface, are they?

'Your point? '

She sidled nearer. 'How am I supposed to feel knowing you would dance with her, but not with me?'

I had a suitably sarky comment ready, but unfortunately, she chose that moment to put her hand in mine and I experienced a sudden mental block. Merlin! Felt like her hand was on fire!

'Suppose, ah, suppose it would be rather ungallant of me. '

'My thoughts exactly! Besides, you must have had enough booze to get you going by now. '

Nope; not _nearly_ enough…

Nevertheless, found myself in the throng of people before I could run for the hills, with one hand in her hers and the other around her waist (not sure how it got there, to be honest. _I _certainly didn't put it there; I know that much). In contrast to the last time I found myself in this position, and despite my detestation of any kind of public spectacle, I felt ridiculously light of heart. I was not removed from the situation this time, but very much caught up in every little sight and sound and touch and…

…

**01:15**

(Just took a little break from writing because my grammar was in danger of becoming frightfully extravagant. Am now composed again).

Was enjoying myself. There. That's prosaic enough and very much all I shall say on the subject.

Except … there was nothing prosaic whatsoever about the experience… Even the music was inspiring—

Oh fuck. Get a grip, Snape. We were just shuffling round and round in circle! That's the size of it!

She seemed to like it when I flung her about in a spin, though; never mind that she tripped over my feet halfway through. She burst into subsequent peals of laughter. In hindsight, think she was a bit pissed, to be frank. Something had gone to head, anyway.

'I can't dance properly, either!' she said joyfully.

Was offended by the implication. I thought I 'd been doing all right, but apparently not.

'So, I needn't worry about any requests for a tango, then,' I muttered dryly, watching a couple on the opposite side poncing about like they were in a ballroom and not at a rather rowdy Christmas party.

To my surprise, her laughter fizzled out and she stopped moving. There was an air of almost serious contemplation to her, and unfortunately, I felt I knew what she was thinking about—this blasted diary. Probably was feeling sorry for me and my passages of self-pity.

Either that, or I thought she might do a Pomona and request to know what I 'd written about her. Maybe she'd even become paranoid about it… I know she can be curious, almost to a fault.

'No,' she said quietly, smiling. 'No tango. The world isn't ready for that, yet; don't you agree?'

Never will be, either, if I have anything to do with it.

I simply nodded, suddenly worrying again about this dinner we were to have. Where will we go? What will we talk about? What will be expected of me? Gah!

The 'dancing' seemed to have fizzled out by then, and we were just standing there. But whilst I was fighting off a mild panic attack and contemplating Summoning a steadying whisky to hand, her thoughts were evidently elsewhere.

'Don't think I didn't see you, ah… kiss your receptionist, as well.'

! ! ! !

'You been spying on me?' Don't ask as to the lengths I had to go in order to find my voice—it was hiding in my boots, somewhere.

Was grateful for the advance warning this time, though, and I was sufficiently prepared when, ah… when she kissed me. On the lips this time, mind. Was very nice, indeed. Was very, um... yes, nice... In fact, was just getting into it, when—

'_Er__…_ _what in the name of Merlin's arse is going on here_!'

Aargh! Was bloody _Potter_! Stupid arse-wipe!

He was standing there, watching us with a scandalised expression on his face. 'Ron's just…Hermione…what _are_ you doing?' he asked in a disbelieving voice.

Realise that Granger and I are not the most orthodox pairing in the world, but think I was miffed that Potter, after all his posturing lately, was going to revert to type and disapprove. Suppose I 'm not surprised he won't ever trust me fully.

'What do you _possibly_ think she could be doing?' I spat testily.

He looked downwards and scrubbed a hand through his hair. 'Um… But… But why?'

Merlin!

Granger stepped away from me and touched her friends arm. 'We're, um, well, sort of together, Harry, in a way—'

'_Together_? Since when?' he exclaimed in dismay. 'I didn't think you actually knew each other very well. You even said you couldn't stand him, once, Hermione!'

Couldn't stand me, eh? Charming!

She blushed. 'Might have been a little hasty… And Harry, I'm sorry I never told you, but Severus and I have become friends over the last few months…'

'_Friends_?' Potter repeated blankly and, to my everlasting horror, looked at me as if… as if _I__'__d_ betrayed him.

What the hell?

'Well, I… I suppose I am happy for you both…' He smiled awkwardly. 'Um…Just a shock, that's all. I ah… Oh, Ginny needs me.' He walked off to stand next to his wife, who clearly wanted to know the juicy details, but Potter just stood there like an automaton.

'Don't worry…' said Granger briskly, also looking at him.

(Is she blind? _Worry_? I hasten to clarify that I was _not_ worried any way, shape or form!)

'… He's just upset to realise he's not the first in your affections any more.'

Oh my God! Oh my God!

This can't be true! Potter is unbalanced—unhinged. The years of abuse and torment and near-death experiences have finally caught up with him.

No other possible explanation. None.

Bloody creep.

**Thursday 29th December**

**14:50 — Home.**

Have left Hogwarts for home, now that Christmas is over with, because, naturally, nothing whatsoever can remain under wraps in that castle, however hard you try. I'm sick of Minerva shaking her head and muttering a dazed sounding '_Hermione Granger_,' under her breath every time she sees me.

And if I hear, 'I just can't get my head round it,' one more time, I'm going to scream. _She_ can't get her head round it? How the fuck does she think I'm managing? And _I__'__m_ the one who has to go out with Granger for dinner tomorrow night!

Merlin!

Some people are so self-absorbed.

**Friday 30th December**

**16:30 — Hoping to calm my nerves through some important self-reflection whilst knowing perfectly well I shall fail miserably. **

Well, it turns out this shall be the last entry I make in this diary. It's going to have to be because it runs out after December and I've only got two and a half pages left to write on. Dear Lord; I've actually filled a whole book with my meanderings of thought.

Was considering buying a new diary for the new year, but… now I'm unsure whether I shall continue this practice.

To be honest, that security scare I had with Granger has put me off. Don't think I want to risk anyone else getting their hands on my most personal ramblings. Indeed, the possibility has become too much to contemplate, and so I am even considering burning the evidence of this past year. There are just some things too sensitive for public consumption, and I'd rest easier knowing there was no way this diary could _ever_ fall into the wrong hands.

And yet … I'm not sure I can bring myself to destroy it. Not yet, anyway. I know it's a new year and a new start and all that rubbish, but I think it would be hasty of me to forget what has happened to me these past twelve months.

In light of that, suppose I could just continue to ward the book extensively—possibly put it within my vault at Gringotts', disguised as something else, until I'm ready to obliterate it entirely.

Have spent a good deal of today reading back through these ramblings, and all I can say is thank Christ I never did keep a diary throughout the war. Dread to think what I would have come out with, if this lot is anything to go by.

Nearly twelve months ago I was a forty-five year old former Death Eater, former spy, former Potions Master, former Defence Against the Dark Arts Master, and left-on-the-scrap-heap-civil-servant, of little significance. Am _now_ nearly forty-six year old former Death Eater, former spy, former Potions Master, former Defence Against the Dark Arts Master, _former_ left-on-the-scrap-heap-civil-servant, of little significance, and _current_ man of leisure, seeing woman half his age!

If that doesn 't scream mid-life crisis, I don't know what does. But still, I'm going to call it progress nevertheless.

It appears that this time last year, I wrote down a set of goals for the year ahead. Only seems appropriate that I evaluate them at this juncture.

**1. Drink less.**

Well, I think I can safely say I didn't even get off the mark with that one. Oops.

**2. Embark on new career route by finding a job I: a) actually enjoy; b) am not over-qualified for; and c) where I am fully appreciated.**

Oh dear Lord.

**3. Find a woman.**

Success! Ha ha! Who would have thought? Of course, this goal may be back by next year (may even be back by _tomorrow_) if I manage to bugger things up, which, let's face it, is very possible.

Still, it's two fingers up at Weasley, for the time being, and I'll always remain grateful for that!

**4. Will think positively.**

Did I _really_ write that? Extraordinarily deluded of me, wasn't it?

One out of four, mind. I think that 's something to be applauded, actually. Well done me.

Tomorrow is a new day, then, and nearly a new year. Am happy to say I shall be starting this next year in better condition than I did the last. Might even look forward to my imminent birthday!

Or not, really. Don 't want reminders as to how old I am… Maybe I won't say anything to Granger… Hermione… whatever she wants to be called… about it. Maybe she isn't even aware of how big the age-gap actually is… Although, I expect she could still deduce it without the finer details… Damn. Was going to shave five years off my actual age…

Still have no job, of course, but that's fine. If I get really desperate, will just have to get the cauldron out; am sure I can make a few Galleons on that score. There are always people in Knockturn Alley willing to buy potions off the street…

More pressingly, there are only _two_ short hours remaining until I am to Apparate to Diagon Alley to meet Granger for our dinner. Have already had two (three) snifters in preparation. Will curtail any further libations, as I don't want to turn up looking and smelling like I've spent the day in a distillery (what a wonderful image, though).

It's time to Make Effort, again… Ugh… Will have to give the navy-blue cravat another airing… Will put a comb through my hair, as well, I suppose… Oh God; what a fuss! And for what? Shall probably be disaster of epic proportions and I will come home and simply want to die.

Oh well… have only a few lines left on the page, so, finally, then, will leave you with this vote of confidence I overheard from the eminently sage and matter-of-fact Rolanda Hooch, on the incident of my rather fledgling relationship with Hermione Granger.

"Oh, it won 't last; she's on the rebound, and he, _well_… _he__'__s_ been on the rebound for the last twenty five years or more!"

Charming; _bloody_ charming.

FIN

* * *

AN: I'm reasonably confident Severus will, indeed, be buying a new diary for the new year; however, I do have a fic for the SS/HG gift exchange to work on first. Eek. Thanks to Cave Felem for her help and assistance; and thanks to everyone for reading, and for reviewing—much appreciated : )


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